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HENRY  TURNER.  BAILEY 


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TWELVE 
GREAT  PAINTINGS 


PERSONAL  INTERPRETATIONS 


BY 


HENRY  TURNER  BAILEY 


THE    PRANG    COMPANY 


NEW  YORK         •         CHICAGO 


BOSTON 


ATLANTA    •    DALLAS 


-3^ 


COPYRIGHT,   191  3 
BY    HENRY    TURNER    BAILEY 


THE'PLIMPTON'PRESa 
NORWOOD-MAS  S'U- 8- A 


TO 

WILLIAM    TORREY    HARRIS 

LOVER  OF  BEAUTY    LOVER  OF  TRUTH 

PHILOSOPHER    TEACHER 

MY   FRIEND 


7M736 


CONTENT 

PAGE 

I    Pope  Innocent  X 9 

Velasquez 

II    Spring 13 

Corot 

III  Ulysses  Deriding  Polyphemus 17 

Turner 

IV  Creation  of  Man 2^ 

Michelangelo  ____ 

V    Saint  Barbara 27 

Palma  Vecchio 

VI    The  Mother 31 

Whistler 

VII    Judith  and  the  Head  of  Holofernes 35 

Botticelli 

VIII    The  Golden  Stairs 39 

Burne-Jones 

IX    The  Sistine  Madonna 43 

Raphael 

X    The  Transfiguration 49 

Raphael 

XI    The  Assumption 55 

Titian 

XII    Pieta 59 

Titian 


[5] 


FOREWORD 

A  dull  uncertain  brain^ 

But  gifted  yet  to  know 

That  God  has  cherubim  who  go 

Singing  an  immortal  strain, 

Immortal  here  below. 

I  know  the  mighty  bards, 

I  listen  when  they  sing, 

And  now  I  know 

The  secret  store 

Which  these  explore 

When  they  with  torch  of  genius  pierce 

The  tenfold  clouds  that  cover 
The  riches  of  the  universe 

From  God's  adoring  lover. 
And  if  to  me  it  is  not  given 

To  fetch  one  ingot  thence 
Of  that  unfading  gold  of  Heaven 

His  merchants  may  dispense. 
Yet  well  I  know  the  royal  mine, 

And  know  the  sparkle  of  its  ore. 
Know  Heaven's  truth  from  lies  that  shine,  — 

Explored  they  teach  us  to  explore. 

Emerson 


\6] 


INTRODUCTION  1  :  ^,j  i  \/ 

WHAT  makes  a  painting  great?    Certainly  not  thie  ix^me' 
of  the  man  who  produced  it.    The  name  of  Rubens  is 
that  of  a  giant  in  the  history  of  painting,  but  that  name 
on  the  thousand  canvases  where  he  emblazoned  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devil  does  not  make  them  all  great.     On 
the  other  hand,  his  Descent  from  the  Cross,  in  Antwerp  Cathedral,  would 
be  reckoned  great,  though  the  name  of  the  man  who  painted  it  were 
forever  unknown. 

A  painting  is  not  great  merely  because  it  is  important  in  the  history 
of  art.  Cimabue's  Madonna  and  Christ-child  is  so  significant  histori- 
cally that  for  once  the  populace  was  right  when  with  music  and  banners 
it  accompanied  the  picture  from  the  master's  studio  to  Santa  Maria 
Novella ;  but  it  could  hardly  be  included  now  in  a  list  of  the  great  paint- 
ings of  the  world. 

Mere  subject  is  no  guarantee  of  greatness.  European  galleries  con- 
tain portraits  of  great  men,  pictures  of  epoch-making  coronations  and 
victories,  saints,  and  madonnas,  crucifixions  and  heavenly  visions,  all 
as  unimportant  in  the  realm  of  painting  as  the  output  of  the  latest 
amateur;  while  all  the  world  holds  as  more  precious  than  rubies  the 
unknown  woman  called  the  Fornarina,  painted,  perhaps,  by  Piombo. 

Mere  technique  does  not  make  a  picture  great.  Paul  Potter's  Bull, 
in  the  Museum  of  The  Hague,  is  a  marvel  of  realism ;  the  Burgomasters 
wherewith  Franz  Hals  has  shingled  many  a  wall  in  the  municipal 
museum  of  Haarlem  are  miracles  of  dash;  Hans  Makart's  Abundantia 
in  the  New  Pinakothek  of  Munich  is  a  nine  days'  wonder  in  color;  but 
all  these  are  as  nothing  in  the  presence  of  Michelangelo's  Creation 
of  Man,  a  painting  which  is  relatively  unrealistic,  unattractive  in 
handling,  and  heavy  and  dull  in  hue. 

Ruskin  says  great  art  is  "that  which  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the 
spectator,  by  any  means  whatsoever,  the  greatest  number  of  the  greatest 
ideas,"  and  he  adds,  to  make  his  meaning  unmistakable,  "I  call  an  idea 

It] 


great  in  proportion  as  it  is  received  by  a  higher  faculty  of  the  mind,  and 
as  it  more  fully  occupies,  and  in  occupying  exercises  and  exalts,  the 
faculty  by  which  it  is  received."  We  may  quarrel  with  this  phrase- 
ology, regret  that  Ruskin  omitted  "feeling,"  and  "delight,"  and  much 
besides,  but  if  we  will  read  thoughtfully  that  whole  second  chapter 
:  .*•  of\tlie/Jfirst  volume  of  Modern  Painters,  on  Greatness  in  Art,  we 
.;.•  .-shall,:  in  the'^nd,  I  think,  be  content  to  accept  his  definition  as  a  fairly 
'  -''s'atisfacfdfytest  of  greatness. 

But  inasmuch  as  what  we  get  from  a  picture,  as  from  a  book, 
or  from  nature  itself,  depends  largely  upon  what  we  bring  to  it,  no  two 
of  us  will  be  affected  by  the  masterpiece  in  the  same  way.  Titian's 
Sacred  and  Profane  Love  may  convey  only  a  small  number  of  small 
ideas  to  one  mind,  while  it  may  convey  a  large  number  of  lofty  ideas 
to  another.  Hence  it  appears  that  he  who  explains  an  old  master 
exposes  himself!  These  self-revelations,  however,  are  not  without  value: 

"God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 
Lending  our  minds  out.** 

But  may  not  an  enthusiast  read  into  a  picture  thoughts  the  artist 
never  intended?  Yes;  possibly.  Yet  who  shall  set  limits  to  the  inten- 
tion of  an  artist,  a  Watts,  for  example,  or  a  Leonardo  da  Vinci?  The 
greatness  of  his  picture  may  depend  upon  its  power  to  do  that  very 
thing  —  to  "fan  the  dreams  it  never  brought,"  —  to  excite,  as  well  as 
to  convey  "the  greatest  number  of  the  greatest  ideas."  Are  not  the 
marble  gods  of  Greece  the  greater  as  works  of  art  for  having  swayed 
many  generations  of  men?  They  satisfied  the  neighbors  of  Phidias, 
enslaved  the  conquerors  of  Athens,  provoked  the  Renaissance,  inspired 
Flaxman  and  Canova,  and  in  these  far-away  days  fed  Rodin  and  Saint 
Gaudens.  They  rule  forever,  eternally  beautiful,  great  even  for  me, 
though  I  worship  the  Invisible  after  the  manner  of  my  Pilgrim  fathers. 

After  all,  any  work  of  art  is  great  for  me  that  promotes  in  me  the 
greatest  number  of  ideas  which  exercise  and  exalt  my  spirit;  and  it  is 
of  twelve  such  masterpieces  that  I  propose  to  write:  not  because  I  feel 
that  I,  drinking  at  such  fountains,  have  exhausted  them,  but  because, 
having  been  refreshed  there,  I  would  tell  others,  in  the  hope  that  they 
too  may  drink  from  these  Castalian  springs. 


1*1 


J 


TWELVE  GREAT  PAINTINGS 

I 

POPE  INNOCENT  X 

By  VELASQUEZ 

IN  the  exhibition  of  portraits  by  John  S.  Sargent,  shown  in  the  lead- 
ing American  cities  a  few  years  ago,  was  one  picture  which  attracted 
universal  attention,  not  only  for  its  astonishing  excellence,  but  for 
the  story  commonly  reported  concerning  it.  The  gentleman  who 
(with  his  dog)  was  the  subject  of  this  picture  asked  Sargent  for  a 
sitting,  so  the  story  ran,  and  was  refused.  The  artist  read  the  man's 
character  and  motives  too  clearly  to  be  pleased  with  such  a  subject. 
But  the  man  was  determined  and  persistent  and  would  pay  any  price 
for  the  portrait.  Sargent  refused  for  a  long  time;  told  him  he  did  not 
care  to  paint  his  portrait ;  that  if  he  were  to  paint  it,  he  himself  would 
not  like  the  picture ;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  The  man  would  not  be  put 
off.  At  last,  yielding  to  importunity,  Sargent  consented,  for  a  fabulous 
price,  to  paint  the  picture.  When  the  portrait  was  finished,  the  man 
was  startled,  horrified,  angered  with  such  a  revelation  of  himself  as  he 
saw  before  him,  and  refused  to  accept  the  picture  or  to  pay  the  price. 
True  or  not,  the  story  was  readily  accepted  as  plausible  enough  by  all 
who  saw  the  portrait.  The  very  soul  of  the  man  stood  there  revealed 
as  at  the  Last  Judgment.  One  would  not  have  been  surprised  had  that 
man  repeated  with  the  canvas  that  tragedy  of  Dorian  Gray. 

Revelation  of  character  is  the  glory  of  portraiture  and  the  measure 
of  the  portrait-painter's  power.  "Character,"  said  Emerson,  "is  that 
which  acts  directly  by  presence,  and  without  means."  The  portrayal 
of  character  therefore  demands  a  super-normal  insight,  and  a  perfect 
mastery  of  technique.  If  one  is  to  be  impressed  primarily  with  the 
quality  of  the  personality  before  him,  as  he  looks  at  the  canvas,  his  mind 
must  not  be  distracted  with  paint  or  the  manner  of  its  use. 

[9] 


Great  portraiture,  the  adequate  portrayal  of  the  individual,  is  a 
comparatively  modern  achievement.  As  excellent  as  the  Fayum  por- 
traits are,  they  exhibit  that  instinctive  feeling  for  the  type,  for  the 
preconceived  ideal,  from  which  the  Greek  artist  could  not  escape.  In 
Roman  art  only,  under  the  influence  of  what  some  students  are  pleased 
to  call  the  Etruscan  spirit,  does  classic  painting  and  sculpture  approach 
the  level  of  true  portraiture,  and  then,  apparently,  only  for  a  brief  period. 
The  art,  scarcely  risen,  suffers  an  eclipse  for  more  than  a  thousand  years. 
During  those  years  symbolism  had  its  day.  Born  again  from  the  cata- 
combs, symbolism  reigned  supreme  in  church,  in  court,  and  camp,  con- 
trolling sculpture,  mosaic,  and  illumination,  metalry,  and  emblazonry, 
until  the  coming  of  the  prophets  of  the  Renaissance. 

The  first  attempts  at  portraiture  in  the  fourteenth  century  were  but 
little  more  than  colored  silhouettes.  Giotto's  Dante  gives  us  a  mere 
shadow-picture,  a  profile  from  which  we  gather  only  an  impression  of 
the  drooping  nose  and  protruding  chin.  Botticelli,  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  does  but  little  more  with  Simonetta.^  Perugino  advances  to  a 
full-front  view,  but  he  produces  only  a  colored  photograph  of  the  outside 
of  the  face.  If  the  spirit  is  within,  it  is  in  a  rapture,  oblivious  of  the 
moment.  Almost  everybody,  in  those  days,  if  we  are  to  believe  the 
painters,  had  "the  gazes'*  forevermore!  When  the  artist  wished  to 
express  individual  character  in  a  man  he  usually  reverted  to  a  sort  of 
symbolism.  Even  Raphael's  Pope  Leo  X  had  to  have  his  cardinal- 
servants  behind  him,  his  missals  and  jewels  before  him,  and  his  reading 
glass  in  his  hand  to  proclaim  his  character.  There  in  the  midst  the 
body  of  the  Pope  sits,  evidently  posed  for  the  occasion,  with  not  a  hint 
in  the  face  of  the  real  spirit  within. 

But  with  the  advent  of  Titian  comes  a  new  power.  The  spirit 
within  the  body  is  subjected  to  the  will  of  the  painter.  At  his  com- 
mand a  living,  thinking,  self-revealing  soul  looks  forth  from  the  windows 
of  the  face.  Before,  there  was  only  one  observer;  now  there  are  two. 
Titian's  Daughter  and  Caterina  Cornaro  see  those  who  see  them. 
Ariosto  and  Cardinal  Ippolito  de'  Medici  calmly  take  the  measure  of 
their  critics.  True  portraiture  has  appeared,  and  the  trappings  may 
now  be  dispensed  with  altogether,  or  relegated  to  second  place.  The 
face  reveals  the  man,  reveals  him  at  a  supreme  moment,  a  moment 
when  the  whole  man,   past,   present,  and  future,   is   there   incarnate. 

^  During  this  century  the  Van  Eycks  of  the  north  were  far  in  advance  of  the  Italians  in  portraiture. 
[xo] 


Such  portraiture  of  the  human  spirit  is  almost  a  miracle.  Few  indeed 
have  been  the  men  who  could  perform  it  every  time  they  saw  fit,  — 
Titian,  Leonardo,  Rembrandt,  Holbein,  Franz  Hals,  Van  Dyck,  Sir 
Joshua,  Ingres,  a  few  more.  Others  can  work  the  miracle  when  they 
have  good  luck;  but  often  the  spirit  of  the  sitter  gets  away  from  them 
and  goes  off  into  dreamland  in  spite  of  all  they  can  do. 

Within  that  select  circle  of  the  supreme  masters  of  portraiture  stands 
the  Spaniard,  Velasquez,  second  to  none.  And  among  all  his  portraits 
there  is,  perhaps,  none  greater  than  that  of  Pope  Innocent  X. 

Giovanni  Battista  Pamfili,  born  at  Rome  in  1574,  graduate  of  the  law 
school  at  twenty,  made  Consistorial  Advocate  by  Clement  VIII,  Nuncio 
at  Naples  by  Gregory  XV,  Datary  with  the  Cardinal-Legate  to  France 
and  Spain  by  Urban  VIII,  Titular  Latin  Patriarch  of  Antioch,  Nuncio  at 
Madrid,  Cardinal-Priest  of  Sant  Eusebio,  Cardinal,  Inquisitor,  Pope, 
is  himself  here  revealed  and  immortalized  by  Velasquez. 

Just  study  that  face  a  while.  This  was  the  man  who  brought  the 
powerful  Barbarini  to  justice  for  misappropriating  public  funds,  and 
winked  at  the  same  crime  in  his  favorite.  Donna  Olimpia!  This  was 
the  man  who  quarreled  with  the  Duke  of  Parma  over  his  bad  debts  and 
the  appointment  of  a  bishop,  seized  the  Duke's  stronghold,  Castro,  and 
razed  its  fortifications,  humbled  the  Duke,  and  then  assumed  to  pay  his 
debts!  This  was  the  man  (made  Pope  because  he  took  both  sides  in  the 
quarrel  between  Spain  and  France !)  who  proved  himself  hostile  to  Spain 
by  encouraging  a  revolt  in  Naples,  and  friendly  to  Spain  by  refusing  to 
recognize  the  independence  of  Portugal;  who  offended  France  by  con- 
fiscating the  palaces,  the  wealth,  and  the  emoluments  of  the  Barbarini, 
and  appeased  France  by  reinstating  the  grafters  when  Mazarin  threatened 
to  send  troops  into  Italy!  This  is  the  man  who  bargained  with  the 
Venetians  to  aid  them  in  wresting  Candia  from  the  Turks  on  condition 
that  he  name  all  appointees  to  the  ecclesiastical  sees  within  Venetian 
territories,  and  who  filled  the  sees,  but  not  the  Venetian  treasury!  This 
is  the  man  who  declared  null  and  void  those  articles  in  the  Peace  of 
Westphalia  inimical  to  the  Catholic  religion,  and  who  fed  the  fires  of  the 
Jansenist  controversy  in  France!  This  is  the  man  who  "loved  justice 
and  lived  a  blameless  life,*'  but  allowed  his  brother's  widow  to  make 
and  unmake  cardinals,  divert  public  funds,  and  rob  him  of  his  good 
name.  This  is  the  man  who  humbled  dukes  and  kings,  managed  states 
and  conclaves,  but  was  secretly  managed  by  a  woman  who  gained  from 


him  all  she  wished,  including  the  wealth  of  the  papal  treasury,  and  who 
then  refused  to  provide  for  his  funeral  on  the  ground  that  she,  *'  being  a 
poor  widow,  had  not  the  means." 

Ambitious  idealist  and  weak  sensualist,  terrible  antagonist  and 
vacillating  friend,  daring  diplomat  and  slippery  partner,  virtuous  grafter, 
reforming  self-seeker,  far-sighted  pope  and  short-sighted  man,  —  is  not 
the  whole  Italian-Renaissance  range  of  his  character  mirrored  perfectly 
in  his  face  as  he  sits  there  in  his  sumptuous  robes,  at  seventy-four  years 
of  age,  in  the  seat  of  the  blunt  and  honest  Galilean  fisherman,  Simon 
Peter? 

Perfectly  composed  within  its  space,  marvelous  in  its  facile  rendering 
of  textures,  faultlessly  drawn,  beautifully  colored,  and  all  without  the 
slightest  apparent  effort,  this  portrait  ranks  as  one  of  the  supreme  pictures 
of  the  world.  To  me  it  is  something  more  than  a  faithful  portrait  of 
Innocent  X.  As  through  the  genius  of  Leonardo,  Mona  Lisa  became  the 
incarnation  of  the  feminine  character  in  all  its  inscrutable  complexity, 
so  through  the  genius  of  Velasquez,  this  Pope  has  become  the  incarnation 
of  the  masculine  character  in  all  its  strength  and  weakness. 

The  man  who  could  j)aint  a  portrait  like  that  was  a  greater  master 
than  his  exalted  subject!  It  is  said  that  when  the  portrait  was  finished 
the  Pope  sent  his  chamberlain  to  pay  the  bill.  "The  King  of  Spain,  my 
master,"  said  Velasquez,  refusing  the  money,  "always  pays  me  with  his 
own  hand."  And  that  same  honor  was  conferred  upon  the  artist  by 
Pope  Innocent  X. 


[12] 


apg™:.^.^^^ 


mm 


tMMi!imu!^^ 


n 

SPRING 

By  jean  BAPTISTE  CAMILLE  COROT 

i^FTER  an  address  on  public  art  instruction,  in  a  Massachusetts 
/%  town  too  small  to  support  a  hotel,  I  was  to  lodge  with 
/  %  the  town  hall  janitor.  "Do  you  want  to  go  to  bed?"  he 
X  IL  asked  abruptly,  as  we  entered  his  house.  "Tm  in  no  hurry," 
was  my  reply.  "I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  he,  "you  seem  to  be 
my  kind,  and  IVe  something  I  want  to  show  you."  He  placed  before 
my  wondering  eyes  photographs  of  every  historic  building  in  the  state, 
of  every  important  historic  site.  He  had  visited  each  one  himself  and 
had  selected  the  point  of  view  for  his  camera  with  astonishing  good  sense. 
"Yes,  I  enjoyed  doing  all  that,  of  course,"  he  confessed;  "but  let  me 
show  you  something  I  enjoyed  more,  and  am  more  unhappy  over." 
He  handed  me  another  large  album,  and  I  began  to  turn  the  pages.  My 
astonishment  grew  with  every  turn.  The  first  page  contained  a  splendid 
photograph  of  a  group  of  willows;  the  second  contained  a  photograph 
of  willows;  willows  again  on  the  third  page;  willows  on  the  fourth; 
fifth,  willows;  sixth,  willows;  willows,  willows  everywhere.  "Now, 
Mr.  Bailey,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  why  I  can't  make  willows  look  like 
that,"  he  said;  and  he  threw  down  upon  the  open  book  a  photograph 
of  Corot*s  Spring.  "I  have  photographed  willows  at  morning,  noon, 
and  night,  spring,  summer,  and  fall;  I  have  tried  them  through  mist, 
and  rain,  and  fog;  I  have  shot  at  them  by  sunlight  and  by  moonlight; 
in  calm  and  storm,  blow  high  and  blow  low,  but  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me 
make  willows  like  Corot's.  When  I  look  at  his  willows,  I  am  a  little 
child  again,  out  doors,  under  their  moving  lights  and  shadows,  the  little 
leaves  like  a  lot  of  minnows,  once  in  a  while  turning  up  their  shiny  sides 
to  the  sun.     How  did  he  ever  do  it?" 

We  sat  by  the  fire  till  long  past  midnight.  The  wind  moaned  over 
the  snowbanks  around  the  house,  and  the  house  snapped  in  the  grip  of 
the  frost,  but  we  were  far  away  in  the  sunny  land  of  France,  with  dear 


[13 


i        ART  % 

DEPARTMENT 


papa  Corot,  of  a  May  morning,  listening  to  his  words  about  the  land- 
scape-painter's day  out-of-doors. 

I  am  the  janitor's  kind!  The  picture  does  for  me  what  it  did  for  him. 
Whenever  I  see  even  a  poor  print  of  it  I  am  back  to  boyhood.  It  is  May. 
I  stand  in  that  blessed  nook  by  the  spring  in  the  angle  of  the  orchard 
wall,  the  woods  behind  and  the  morning  itself  before  me.  I  am  barefoot 
for  the  first  time  again.  I  feel  the  soft  warm  grass  of  the  sloping  bank, 
which  has  had  the  sun  since  dawn.  The  grass  is  full  of  violets  blue  and 
white ;  the  buttercups  have  budded ;  the  big  plaited  leaves  of  the  Indian 
poke  are  pushing  up  through  the  tangle  of  last  year's  hemp  weed ;  the 
water  from  the  spring  slips  noiselessly  along  through  the  waving  pennons 
of  the  green  felt  and  between  the  stout  stems  of  the  marigolds.  The 
jewel  weed  has  sprouted;  the  fiddle  heads  are  out;  the  sweet  flags  are  a 
span  high.  But  what  a  wondrous  green-gold  light  pours  down  upon  me! 
The  great  willows  bestow  that  benediction.  There  stands  a  tree  just 
like  the  large  one  in  the  picture,  reaching  upward  to  the  left  in  the  self- 
same way;  there  stands  a  smaller  one  just  where  Corot  has  placed  it, 
forever  cut  back  by  the  boys  who  make  whistles;  and  there  stands  the 
third,  the  giant,  just  outside  the  picture  at  the  right,  the  father  willow, 
we  used  to  call  him,  immense,  old,  gray,  patriarchal  in  majesty,  respon- 
sible for  that  vast,  dim  shadow  that  falls  in  from  above.  I  am  sure  if  I 
look  up  that  way  I  shall  see  the  great  masses  of  gray-green  swaying  slowly 
against  the  deep  blue,  and  the  little  leaves  all  tremulously  happy  as  they 
ride  together  away  up  there  in  the  sky,  where  the  swallows  are  darting 
about  and  calling  to  one  another. 

The  photograph,  powerful  though  it  be,  is  weak  in  comparison  with 
the  original.  The  painting,  which  hangs  in  the  Louvre,  although  only 
about  two  by  three  feet  in  size,  casts  its  spell  over  every  lover  of  beauty, 
and  transports  him  at  once  to  his  home  in  the  country,  instantly  obliter- 
ates the  years,  and  sets  the  calendar  to  May.     He  is  again 

"A  happy  child; 
He  beholds  the  blooming  wild, 
And  hears  in  heaven  the  bluebird  sing; 
'Onward/  he  cries,  'your  baskets  bring,  — 
In  the  next  field  is  air  more  mild, 
And  o'er  yon  hazy  crest  is  Eden's  balmier  spring.' " 

The  whole  canvas  is  bathed  in  that  indescribable  color  which  streams 
through  willows,  a  glory  that  might  fall  through  windows  of  chrysolite. 

[14] 


The  yellow-green  of  the  sunlit  grass  fades  in  the  near-by  foliage,  melts 
away  into  the  opalescent  mist  across  the  still  water,  and  is  lost  at  last 
in  the  golden  mystery  of  the  distance.  Out  of  that  distance  comes  a 
hint  of  rose  color;  it  grows  stronger  in  the  upper  branches  of  the  trees, 
announces  itself  in  the  flowers  of  the  foreground,  warms  the  garments 
of  the  girl  who  reaches  for  the  leaves,  and  then  becomes  a  brilliant  spark 
of  vermilion  in  the  cap  of  the  kneeling  figure. 

As  I  look  long  at  the  canvas,  I  find  myself  moving  away  from  my 
boyhood.  I  am  no  longer  a  child,  my  spirit  begins  to  look  upward  with 
these  children,  and  to  reach  outward  with  these  long  arms  of  the  trees, 
upward  and  outward,  toward  the  light.  I  find  there  the  Infinite,  and 
the  eternal  spring. 

"AH  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Open  their  thousand  leaves." 

The  fresh  spears  of  grass  clothe  with  their  beauty  mile  on  mile  of  upland 
and  meadow;  the  waters  of  the  pond  are  populous  with  new  millions  of 
living  forms ;  the  air  pulsates  with  the  wings  of  a  billion  birds,  returned  to 
nest  and  nurture  billions  more.  The  flowers  blossom  again  by  trillions. 
I  hear  Nature  herself  laughing  and  singing, 

"No  numbers  have  counted  my  tallies. 
No  tribes  my  house  can  fill, 
I  sit  at  the  shining  fount  of  life 
And  pour  the  deluge  still." 

The  golden-green  of  the  picture  is  itself  the  symbol  of  the  indomitable 
fruitfulness  of  divine  Wisdom. 

But  notwithstanding  the  all-encompassing  urge  of  the  spring,  some 
branches  in  the  picture  do  not  burgeon.  Across  the  shimmering  hues 
of  the  leaves  and  the  mist,  they  make  harsh,  dark  lines.  Spring  cannot 
"  Renovate  all  that  high  God  did  first  create,"  in  nature  nor  in  life.    True 

"Spring  still  makes  spring  in  the  mind 
When  sixty  years  are  told; 
Love  makes  anew  this  throbbing  heart 
And  we  are  never  old," 

but  there  are  past  failures,  sins,  disappointments  that  nothing  can  repair. 
The  annual  return  of  joyous  life  but  serves  to  bring  into  stronger  relief 
their  ugly  and  somber  presence.    That  companion  I  lost  in  youth,  — 

U5I 


"Returned  this  day  the  south  wind  searches. 
And  finds  young  pines  and  budding  birches; 
But  finds  not  the  budding  man." 

That  careless  word  that  brought  years  of  heartache  to  my  dearest  friend, 
—  She  forgave  me;  God  forgave  me;  but  we  cannot  forget  it.  There 
it  is,  made  only  uglier  by  new  growths  of  love.  Why  did  not  Corot  omit 
those  dead  branches?  Ah,  would  the  picture  have  been  so  true  without 
them.?  Would  it  have  been  so  beautiful?  Are  not  the  darks  required 
to  make  us  appreciate  the  lights?  Are  not  the  harsh  lines  necessary  to 
make  us  feel  the  mellow  atmosphere  and  the  soft  verdure?  And  in 
my  life?  Without  that  death,  when  would  have  sprung  up  my  hope 
of  immortality;  without  that  sin,  how  could  I  have  known  the  joy  of 
forgiveness?  Yes,  I  can  side  with  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  and  welcome  each 
rebuff.  Yes;  in  everything  I  can  give  thanks,  as  Paul  enjoins;  for  I 
perceive  that  at  last  "All  things  work  together  for  good  to  those  who 
love  God " ;  even  as  all  things  in  this  picture  work  together  for  the  best, 
for  those  who  love  beauty.  As  every  detail  is  bathed  in  the  golden- 
green  of  this  atmosphere,  so  am  I  immersed  in  the  infinite  flood  of 
God's  abundant  life,  but  I  can  trace  through  it  all  His  love.  Is  that 
why  Corot  brings  the  red  into  his  green  world?  There  are  hints  of 
it  everywhere  in  his  canvas,  but  it  is  there  in  its  fulness  only  upon  the 
head  of  the  one  who  kneels,  and  who  reaches  out  a  hand  for  a  flower 
to  give  to  a  little  child. 


[i6] 


^ 


L^  s  iiiiiiiiiimiuiimiiiHinmiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiHmimmmifiiiiiiiiiiiim^  S  p 


liiiiliiiiiillllliilililllililliiil. 


Ill 

ULYSSES  DERIDING  POLYPHEMUS 

By  JOSEPH  MALLORD  WILLIAM  TURNER 

^kMONG    the    many    happy    surprises    the   National    Gallery   of 
/  %        London  gave  me,  that  first  ever-memorable  visit,  years  ago, 
I      %      none  was  greater,  none  more  thrilling  than  this,  the  vision 
X         m   of  Ulysses  Deriding  Polyphemus.     I   had  heard  of  it,  but 
had  never  seen  it,  even  in  photograph.     In  that  twenty- 
second  room,  full  of  masterpieces  by  Turner,  made  so  familiar  to  me 
by  the  writings  of  Ruskin  that  I  could  dispense  with  the  guide  book,  I 
found  my  eyes  returning  more  and  more  frequently  to  this  canvas,  and 
at  last  resting  there  alone.     And  now,  whenever  I   happen  to  be  in 
London,  I  feel  the  tug  of  this  picture  more  strongly  than  that  of  any 
other  object  in  the  city.     Westminster  with  its  splendors,  St.   Paul's 
with  all  its  majesty,  the  British  Museum  with  its  incalculable  wealth 
of  treasure,  cannot  draw  me  to  itself  so  quickly.     My  first  fane  is  the 
National  Gallery,  my  first  shrine  the  Ulysses. 

In  the  presence  of  the  original,  the  magic  of  the  master  transports 
me  at  once  "in  Ulysses'  red-cheeked  ships  (some  god  our  guide)  into  a 
quiet  harbor."  Before  me  at  the  left  I  catch  the  gleam  of  "the  spring 
of  sparkling  water  flowing  from  beneath  a  cave  around  which  poplars 
grew."  At  the  right  are  the  "beaked  and  dark-bowed,  well-benched 
ships"  of  Ulysses'  companions,  waiting  together.  The  whole  ninth  book 
of  the  Odyssey,  in  fact  the  whole  Homeric  world,  lives  again.  That 
pierced  crag,  the  rude  triumphal  arch  of  some  sea  god,  I've  seen  off^ 
Capri;  but  the  wooded  slopes  beyond,  rising  upward  and  away  through 
the  mists  of  the  morning  to  the  far  peaks  lost  in  crimson  cloud,  seem  to 
be  the  land  "not  held  for  flocks  and  tillage,  but  all  unsown,  untilled, 
forevermore,  where  vines  could  never  die."  The  trusty  comrades  of 
the  hero  are  "in  their  places  at  the  pins,  and  sitting  in  order,  smite  the 
foaming  water  with  their  oars."  The  ship  is  ancient;  but  to  this  day 
in  Egypt  the  sailors  may  be  seen  climbing  like  cats  upon  the  great  curved 

\I7\ 


spars  of  the  Nile  boats  as  these  men  climb  upon  Ulysses'  ship.  Dolphins 
still  leap  beside  the  ships  in  Adria,  but  here  the  sea  nymphs  sport 
among  them,  with  white  arms  gleaming  in  the  spray  beneath  the 
ship's  wet  bow.  Men  still  see  the  sun  flame  upward  over  the  ^gean, 
but  only  here  are  the  fiery  steeds  of  Apollo's  golden  chariot  visible  to 
mortal  eye.  Sea  and  shore  are  of  this  present  world,  but  above  them, 
dim  and  vast,  writhes  Polyphemus,  "not  like  a  man  who  lives  by  bread, 
but  rather  like  a  woody  peak  of  the  high  hills  seen  single,  clear  of 
others,"  a  part  of  that  other  world  where  the  bright  gods  abide,  seen 
clearest  by  blind  Homer. 

It  is  this  combination  of  elements  from  the  outer  and  inner  world, 
this  charging  of  the  commonplace  with  the  message  of  the  spirit,  that 
makes  all  myths,  writes  all  enduring  poems,  paints  all  great  pictures. 
Turner  in  the  realm  of  painting  rivals  Homer  in  the  realm  of  words. 
Into  a  few  dead  facts  both  have  infused  the  ichor  of  immortality,  and 
"high-born  ready  Odysseus"  lives  now  in  his  magic  world,  audible  and 
visible,  forevermore.  There  he  stands,  high  on  the  deck  of  his  golden 
galley,  "calling  aloud  out  of  an  angry  heart:  'Cyclops,  if  ever  mortal 
man  asks  you  the  story  of  the  ugly  blinding  of  your  eye,  say  that  Odysseus 
made  you  blind,  the  spoiler  of  cities,  Laertes'  son,  whose  home  is  Ithaca.'"^ 
Ah,  those  days  of  toil  with  the  classics  at  Brentford  school,  disappoint- 
ing as  they  were  to  the  ambitious  barber  and  his  extraordinary  son,  have 
borne  celestial  fruit. 

The  composition  of  the  picture  is  in  one  respect  unique.  The  great 
fan  of  light  radiating  from  the  sun  at  the  right,  is  balanced  by  a  fan  of 
line  radiating  from  the  hold  of  Ulysses'  ship  at  the  left.  These  two  fans 
are  perfectly  inter-related.  Mass  is  balanced  by  vista.  In  the  print 
the  sunrise  monopolizes  the  attention;  not  so  in  the  painting.  In  the 
painting  Ulysses  holds  first  place,  as  he  ought.  This  seemingly  im- 
possible primacy  of  so  small  a  feature  is  brought  about  by  means  of 
color.  As  brilliant  as  the  colors  of  the  sunrise  are,  they  are  not  so  bril- 
liant as  Ulysses !  The  blues  and  purples  and  reds  of  the  picture  complete 
their  sequence  in  the  vermilion  of  his  armor;  the  hues  of  white,  yellow, 
and  orange  lead  the  eye  again  to  the  hero  and  find  their  climax  in  his 
flaming  torch.  The  whole  color  scheme  is  focused  in  this  one  little  spot 
of  absolutely  pure  color.     Ulysses  glows  like  a  live  coal. 

The  reproduction  in  black  and  white,  even  the  best  carbon  photo- 

*  The  quotations  are  from  Professor  Palmer's  fine  translation  of  the  Odyssey. 
[i8] 


graph,  gives  but  the  faintest  echo  of  the  original,  for  it  is,  primarily,  a 
masterpiece  in  color. 

Turner's  chief  aim  seems  to  have  been  the  conquest  of  the  sky,  the 
representation  of  the  atmosphere  under  every  possible  condition.  His 
pictures  deal  with  space,  space  filled  with  sunshine,  gloom,  vapor,  mist, 
cloud,  rain;  space  filled  with  calm  and  storm;  space  exhibiting  every 
possible  color  in  infinite  variety.  The  features  of  the  landscape,  modi- 
fied, moved  about,  transformed  by  his  opulent  imagination,  were  merely 
the  pegs  upon  which  he  hung  the  splendid  robes  and  veils  of  color,  woven 
by  the  fingers  of  the  light  upon  the  loom  of  air. 

This  picture,  Ruskin  says,  marks  the  beginning  of  the  master's  central 
period  of  power.  The  sky  is  "beyond  comparison  the  finest  that  exists 
in  Turner's  oil  paintings."  It  is  wonderful!  No  words  can  describe  it. 
If  words  can  help  at  all  one  who  has  not  seen  the  original,  the  words 
would  be  Ruskin's,  written  in  the  presence  of  another  picture  by  the 
same  master,  but  applicable  here:  "The  whole  sky  from  the  zenith  to 
the  horizon  becomes  one  molten,  mantling  sea  of  color  and  fire;  every 
black  bar  turns  to  massy  gold,  every  ripple  and  wave  into  unsullied, 
shadowless  crimson  and  purple  and  scarlet,  and  colors  for  which  there 
are  no  words  in  language  and  no  ideas  in  the  mind,  —  things  which  can 
only  be  conceived  while  they  are  visible,  —  the  intense  hollow  blue  of 
the  upper  sky  melting  through  it  all,  showing  here  deep  and  pure  and 
lightless,  —  there  modulated  by  the  filmy,  formless  body  of  the  trans- 
parent vapor,  till  it  is  lost  imperceptibly  in  its  crimson  and  gold."  And 
Ruskin  adds:  "There  is  no  connection,  no  one  link  of  association  or 
resemblance,  between  those  skies  and  the  work  of  any  mortal  hand  but 
Turner's."  If  that  statement  isn't  true,  it  is  so  near  the  truth  that  the 
margin  is  hardly  worth  an  argument. 

But  why  so  much  emphasis  upon  the  sky,  in  a  picture  of  Ulysses? 
For  the  same  reason  that  there  is  so  much  emphasis  upon  the  sky  in  the 
picture  of  the  Old  Temeraire.  Turner  saw  his  beloved  skies  as  typical. 
The  "Temeraire,"  a  ship  of  the  line,  which  finished  a  warrior's  career 
gloriously  at  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  leading  the  van  in  Nelson's  division 
and  breaking  the  line  of  the  combined  fleets,  was  being  towed  to  her 
last  berth  by  a  fiery  little  steam  tug.  "There's  a  fine  subject.  Turner," 
said  Clarkson  Stanfield.  Turner  made  no  answer  at  the  time,  but  the 
next  year  exhibited  the  picture.  He  saw  in  the  incident  the  last  of  the 
wooden  navy.    To  his  mind  it  was  the  moment  of  the  sunset  of  a  glorious 

[19] 


day  in  England's  naval  history.  Had  he  represented  the  towing  at  any 
other  time  of  day,  it  would  have  been  commonplace  enough,  its  signifi- 
cance would  have  been  lost;  at  sunset  its  meaning  was  blazoned  on  the 
very  heavens  for  all  the  world  to  read. 

But  the  sky  in  the  Ulysses  is  not  a  sunset!  And  to  enforce  that  fact 
with  the  dullest  observer,  Turner  has  made  visible  the  horses  of  the  sun, 
leaping  upward  from  the  sea.     It  is  sunrise.     Why? 

Dr.  William  T.  Harris  has  said  that  Turner  loved  to  depict  conflict 
of  some  sort,  conflict  between  sea  and  shore,  sun  and  storm,  light  and 
darkness,  man  and  the  elements,  but  that  he  always  chose  the  supreme 
moment  when  the  war  still  raged  but  when  the  edict  had  gone  forth  that 
the  celestial  forces  should  conquer.  This  picture  is  a  good  example. 
Think  of  the  ten  years*  war  with  Troy  in  which  Ulysses  had  fought. 
Think  of  the  years  of  wandering  in  which  he  had  suffered  beyond  all 
other  men.  Think  of  the  fearful  experience  through  which  he  had  just 
passed,  —  the  fog,  the  night,  the  cave,  the  horrible  nightmare  of  the 
monster's  meal.  But  as  usual  the  wit  of  Ulysses  had  saved  his  soul  alive. 
His  bright  goddess,  fair-haired  Athena,  never  failed  him  at  the  critical 
moment.  He  has  outwitted  the  giant.  He  has  escaped  to  his  ship.  He 
is  on  his  way  home.  Zeus  wills  it!  The  darkness  yields.  The  rowers 
are  at  the  benches,  the  sailors  man  the  yards,  an  off-shore  breeze  springs 
up,  the  sails  fill,  flags  of  victory  flutter  out,  the  sea  nymphs  show  the 
channel  to  the  open  sea,  it  is  morning!  Light  has  conquered  again, 
—  the  light  of  the  world,  and  that  finer  light  that  lighteth  every  man 
that  Cometh  into  the  world. 

I  have  the  finest  brown  carbon  photograph  of  this  picture  obtainable, 
large  size,  hung  where  I  can  see  it  every  time  I  look  up  from  my  desk. 
From  all  the  pictures  ever  painted  I  have  selected  this  for  my  constant 
companion.  To  me  it  embodies  the  whole  history  of  the  human  spirit, 
past,  present,  and  future,  in  one  supreme  vision.  Long-tried,  royal 
Odysseus  is  man  in  his  struggle  with  nature,  man  in  his  warfare  with 
ignorance,  the  Son  of  Man  in  His  fight  with  sin  and  death,  my  own  best 
self  in  its  lifelong  battle  with  everything  adverse.  By  the  help  of  his 
god  Ulysses  won.    Why  may  not  I  with  the  help  of  mine .? 


[20] 


IV 

THE  CREATION  OF  MAN 

By  MICHELANGELO 

BY  that  trick  of  the  mind  called  by  the  rhetoricians  "  synecdoche," 
the  Creation  of  Man,  seen  anywhere,  in  even  the  poorest  print, 
means  to  me  the  whole  Sistine  Chapel.  One  glance  at  the 
familiar  lines  and  my  spirit  has  leaped  the  sea.  I  have  escaped 
from  the  rattling  carriage  in  the  sun-drowned  Piazza  San  Pietro, 
have  passed  in  safety  the  watchmen  of  the  flaming  garb,  and  am  standing 
with  uncovered  head  beneath  the  great  dim  ceiling.  The  titanic  fresco 
is  of  irresistible  power.  Whoever  comes  into  its  presence  feels  the  spell. 
Having  seen  it,  one  can  no  more  forget  it  than  he  can  forget  his  first 
vision  of  the  all-encompassing  sky  goddess  Newt  on  the  ceiling  of  the 
Kiosque  of  Dendera,  with  the  moon  and  the  stars  at  her  breast  and  the 
sun  rising  from  her  lap. 

The  Creation  of  Man  is  the  fourth  panel  in  the  series  of  nine  which 
constitutes  the  central  portion  of  the  frescoes;  or  the  sixth  in  the  series 
reckoned  in  the  order  in  which  it  was  painted.  For,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  the  series  was  painted  backward.  Just  why  the  Drunkenness 
of  Noah  was  chosen  as  the  subject  of  the  last  panel,  and  then  painted 
first,  all  the  world  is  still  discussing.  Disgusted  with  the  conditions  of 
his  time,  stung  by  the  gibe  of  his  enemies  (that  a  sculptor  could  not 
paint),  and  forced  to  begin  the  work  against  his  will,  what  would  have 
been  more  natural  to  a  man  of  Michelangelo's  temper,  than  to  have  seized 
upon  the  Drunkenness  of  Noah  as  typical  of  the  day,  and  to  have  painted 
that  first,  and  in  the  style  popular  at  the  moment,  to  beat  his  jealous 
rivals  at  their  own  game,  and  to  show  them  what  he  thought  of  the  whole 
wretched  situation  P^ 

However  it  was,  as  he  worked,  his  temper  seems  to  have  cooled. 

^  Inasmuch  as  the  whole  decoration  of  the  Chapel  is  intended  to  review  the  essentials  of  the  history  of 
Redemption,  Michelangelo  may  have  ended  his  series  with  the  drunkenness  of  Noah,  to  show  that  the  very 
best  man,  the  one  worthy  of  preservation  through  the  flood,  needed  the  Salvation  revealed  in  the  Christ,  and 
therefore  that  all  need  it. 

[21] 


Like  any  other  genuine  artist  he  became  more  interested  in  the  work 
itself  than  in  anything  else,  and  proceeded  to  adapt  the  treatment  of  his 
theme  to  the  expanding  vision.  What  a  transition  in  five  panels  from 
the  orderly  confusion  of  the  Flood  to  the  august  simplicity  of  the  Crea- 
tion !  The  critics  say  that  Michelangelo  saw  his  mistake  in  using  so  many 
figures  of  so  small  a  size  and  therefore  simplified  his  compositions  and 
enlarged  his  figures  as  he  proceeded.  Indeed!  Let  the  critics  meditate 
on  the  Creation  of  Light  as  given  in  the  account  Michelangelo  was  fol- 
lowing, and  then  tell  us  how  he  might  have  represented  it  in  the  same 
style  with  the  Drunkenness  of  Noah. 

The  Creation  of  Man,  or  as  it  is  often  called,  the  Creation  of  Adam, 
is  reckoned  as  the  masterpiece  in  this  masterly  series.  In  it  the  artist's 
genius  reaches  highwater  mark.  The  composition  is  a  unit;  it  has  not 
two  themes,  like  the  Eden  panel,  but  one,  and  that  sun-clear.  In  some 
of  the  other  panels  the  intention  of  the  artist  is  not  evident  at  sight. 
Here  misunderstanding  is  impossible.  This  superb  creature  on  a  hilltop, 
just  coming  alive,  has  no  rival  in  the  whole  range  of  painting. 

The  lines  upon  which  the  picture  is  composed  are  in  themselves  of 
astonishing  power.  This  becomes  obvious  in  a  tracing.  In  the  Creator 
group  the  curves  come  into  the  picture  like  a  rushing  mighty  wind  driving 
everything  before  it.  The  effect  of  this  onset  is  evident  in  the  Adam 
group.  But  the  force  in  the  one  takes  a  turn  about  the  head  of  the 
Creator  and  flashes  forth  on  a  new  path  to  the  fingertip,  while  the  force 
in  the  other,  just  when  it  seems  to  have  spent  itself  in  the  head  of  Adam, 
reappears  in  the  feebly  outstretched  arm  and  is  lost  in  the  drooping  hand. 
The  marvel  is  more  marvelous  when  one  realizes  that  these  curves, 
expressing  divine  life  and  human  lassitude,  both  to  the  very  hmits  of 
possibility,  are  the  same !  Like  an  Athenian  vase  of  the  best  period,  the 
whole  composition  is  a  play  upon  one  line.  A  single  curve,  the  curve 
of  force,  builds  the  entire  design. 

Consider  that  figure  of  Adam,  propped  up  by  one  arm,  simply  because 
the  elbow  happened  by  good  luck  to  fall  vertically  beneath  the  shoulder; 
that  knee  raised  only  because  the  leg  happened  to  be  poised  (it  might 
fall  either  way  at  any  moment) ;  the  body  bent  by  its  own  weight ;  the 
heavy  head  and  neck  sunken  within  the  shoulders;  the  lifeless  hand; 
the  child-like  face  where  a  response  to  the  divine  is  just  beginning  to 
manifest  itself;  no  other  painter  ever  charged  a  human  figure  with  such 
a  burden  of  meaning. 

[22] 


The  figure  of  the  Creator  is  no  less  wonderful.  Perfectly  at  rest  yet 
tense  with  activity,  it  rides  amid  its  attendants,  supported  by  them  yet 
supporting  all.  Compare  the  foot  with  that  of  Adam.  How  living  it 
is !  Compare  the  Creator's  two  hands.  That  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 
cherub  is  doing  something,  but  its  energy  is  as  nothing  compared  with 
that  outstretched  to  communicate  the  electric  thrill  of  life  to  the  newly 


created  body.  Compare  this  life-giving  hand  with  Adam's  hand.  Notice 
the  difference  between  the  two  index  fingers;  between  the  two  thumbs; 
between  the  other  fingers;  between  the  two  wrists.  Here  are  the  two 
most  expressive  hands  in  the  world  within  an  inch  of  each  other. 

But  there  is  one  element  in  this  picture,  never  mentioned,  so  far  as 
I  know,  by  any  critic;  namely,  the  Spirit  of  the  Creator  sent  forth  in 
advance  to  energize  the  inert  body.  The  record  Michelangelo  was 
interpreting  read:  "And  the  Lord  God  formed  man  of  the  dust  of  the 
ground,  and  breathed  into  his  nostrils  the  breath  of  life;  and  the  man  became 
a  living  soul."  There  is  nothing  here  about  the  "finger  of  God,"  although 
that  is  mentioned  three  times  elsewhere  in  the  Bible,  and  always  as  the 
instrument  of  God's  power.  The  Breath  of  God  is  mentioned  seven 
times.  It  symbolizes  the  divine  life  manifesting  itself  without  visible 
embodiment.  The  gods  so  manifested  themselves  to  the  Greek  heroes. 
The  cloud,  always  closely  associated  with  the  wind,  is  the  natural  veil 
of  a  heavenly  visitor.  "Lo,  I  come  unto  thee  in  a  thick  cloud,"  said  God 
to  Moses.  More  than  fifty  times  in  the  Bible  the  cloud  is  spoken  of  as 
indicating  the  divine  presence.  Michelangelo,  a  reverent  and  thorough 
student  of  the  Scriptures,  and  a  keen  thinker  as  well,  knew  that  before 
the  human  spirit  could  even  reach  out  a  hand  toward  God,  the  breath 
of  the  Almighty  must  already  have  given  it  life.  ^'  He  is  the  essence 
that  inquires!"    as  Emerson  said.     Michelangelo  himself  wrote: 


"For  love  warms  not  my  heart,  nor  can  I  rise, 
Or  ope  the  doors  of  Grace,  who  from  the  skies 
Might  flood  my  soul  .  .  . 

Rend  Thou  the  veil,  dear  Lord !     Break  Thou  that  wall  .  .  . 
Send  down  Thy  promised  light  to  cheer  and  fall  ... 

That  I  with  love  may  blaze, 
And  free  from  doubt,  my  heart  feel  only  Thee!"  ^ 

Therefore  in  this  wonderful  panel,  the  Almighty  projects  himself 
as  a  vast  cloud,  close  to  the  recumbent  body.  The  Creator's  head  is 
repeated  line  for  line  in  this  cloudy  shape,  even  to  the  eye  and  the  flow- 
ing beard;  the  open  mouth  is  opposite  Adam's  head,  "breathing  into 
his  nostrils"  the  breath  of  life.  In  many  a  reproduction  this  shadowy 
form  is  hardly  visible,  but  in  a  good  reproduction,  such  as  that  in  Masters 
in  Art,  and  especially  in  the  original,  it  is  evident.  In  the  diagrams  of 
the  entire  ceiling  decoration,  rendered  in  line,  this  face  is  missing.  But 
how  empty  that  part  of  the  composition  appears!  The  panel,  without 
those  few  lines,  is  unbalanced, — the  only  unbalanced  panel  in  the  series. 
Add  them,  as  in  the  tracing  reproduced  herewith,  and  the  composition 
is  complete.  Balance  is  restored  at  once.  The  panel  has  never  been 
retouched;  the  silhouette  cannot  have  come  by  accident.  It  is  there 
because  Michelangelo  put  it  there.  It  is  the  supreme  proof  of  the  insight 
of  the  master  into  the  eternal  relations  between  the  human  and  the 
divine. 

But  the  orthodox  Michelangelo  went  farther  yet.  God's  foreknowl- 
edge had  been  affirmed  by  the  church  fathers  for  a  thousand  years. 
"With  God,"  they  said,  "knowing  and  willing  are  one."  Already  the 
helpmeet  for  Adam  existed  in  the  knowledge  and  purpose  of  the  Creator. 
Therefore,  in  this  picture,  the  Creation  of  Adam,  —  nay,  the  larger  title 
is  the  better,  the  Creation  of  Man,  —  the  master  has  embodied  not  only 
this  philosophy,  but  the  thought  expressed  in  the  original  document: 
"  So  God  created  man  in  his  own  image,  in  the  image  of  God  created  he 
him,  male  and  female  created  he  them."  The  account  of  the  creation 
of  Eve  comes  in  another  chapter,  and  Michelangelo  has  represented  that 
m  another  panel.  But  here,  in  this  panel.  Eve  already  exists,  next  to 
the  heart  of  God,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  heavenly  attendants,  the 
most  interested  of  all  those  who  weje  present  "when  the  morning  stars 
sang  together  and  all  the  sons  of  i3qd»  shouted  for  joy."    The  Heavenly 

1  From  Heart-Coldness,  by  Michelangelo. 
[24] 


Father  holds  her  in  reserve  for  Adam,  even  as  at  the  very  moment  this 
picture  was  being  painted  He  was  holding  in  reserve,  as  the  spiritual 
mate  of  this  great-hearted,  pure-minded,  lonely  man  himself,  the  lovely 
Vittoria  Colonna.     In  a  sonnet  to  her  Michelangelo  said: 

"I  saw  no  mortal  beauty  with  these  eyes 

When  perfect  peace  in  thy  fair  eyes  I  found; 
But  far  within,  where  all  is  holy  ground, 

My  soul  felt  Love,  her  comrade  of  the  skies: 

For  she  was  born  with  God  in  Paradise."  ^ 

The  Creation  of  Man  is  to  me  the  symbol  of  the  rebirth  of  the  soul, 
when,  heavy  with  the  weight  of  the  physical  life  with  which  it  is  asso- 
ciated, unconscious  of  its  powers,  it  is  awakened  by  the  divine  breath. 
If  then  it  reaches  out,  never  so  feebly,  it  finds  what  David  promised 
King  Saul,  in  Browning's  immortal  verse: 

"A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee;  a  Man  like  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever:  a  Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee!  See  the  Christ  stand!" 

It  is  to  me  the  symbol  of  the  perpetual  relation  which  exists  between 
the  awakened  soul  and  God.  On  one  side  the  soul,  ever  conscious  of 
its  own  weakness,  ever  re-enforced  by  the  heavenly  breath,  reaching  for- 
ever, forever  craving  more  of  the  abounding  life;  on  the  other  side  the 
loving  Father  who  answers  before  the  human  spirit  calls,  who  wills  to  do 
for  us  more  than  we  can  ask  or  think,  and  of  whose  purpose  it  is  written, 
"Eye  hath  not  seen  nor  ear  heard,  neither  have  entered  into  the  heart 
of  man,  the  things  which  God  has  prepared  for  them  that  love  Him." 

^  From  Celestial  Love.  Both  this  and  the  sonnet  previously  quoted  are  from  the  translation  by  John 
Addington  Symonds. 


Us] 


V 

SAINT  BARBARA 

By  PALMA  VECCHIO 

i^MONG    the    Golden    Legends    is   that  of  Saint   Barbara,    only 
/%        daughter  of  Dioscorus  of  Heliopolis,  so  beautiful,  so  jealously 
#      %      loved  by  her  father,  that  she  was  kept  in  a  lofty  tower,  where 
J^         ^  the  eager  eyes  of  suitors  could  not  reach  her.     Here  in  the 
year  303,  reading  and  dreaming  alone,  the  heavens  declared 
to  her  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  showed  her  His  handiwork. 
There  was  no  speech  nor  language,  yet  without  these  was  their  voice 
heard  by  the  maiden,  and  she  renounced  her  father's  gods.     Having 
heard  a  rumor  of  the  wisdom  and  saintliness  of  Origen  of  Alexandria, 
she  managed,  during  her  father's  absence  from  home,  to  send  to  that 
great  Christian  physician  a  letter.     Upon  receipt  thereof  Origen  rejoiced 
greatly,  and  replying  with  his  own  hand,  sent  his  message  by  one  of  his 
most  trusted  disciples,  disguised  as  a  physician.     This  man,  being  wel- 
comed by  Barbara,  perfected  her  conversion,  gave  her  Christian  baptism, 
and  returned  to  his  home.     Barbara  persuaded  workmen,  constructing 
a  bath-chamber  in  the  tower,  to  modify  the  plan  they  were  following  to 
the  extent  of  making  a  triple  window  in  place  of  a  double  one.     The 
reason  for  this  change  was  demanded  by  Dioscorus,  upon  his  return. 
"Know,  my  father,"  said  Barbara,  "that  through  three  windows  doth 
the  soul  receive  light,  —  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Spirit;   and 
the   Three    are   One."     Enraged    by   this    confession,   Dioscorus    drew 
his  sword  and  would  have  killed  his  daughter  had  she  not  fled  to  the 
top  of  the  tower,  "where  by  angels  she  was  wrapt  from  his  view,  and 
carried  to  a  distance."     Her  place  of  concealment  having  been  revealed 
by  a  shepherd,  Barbara  was  whipped,  shut  in  a  dungeon,  denounced 
to  the  proconsul,   the   heartless    Marcian,  who  ordered    her    scourged 
and  horribly  tortured.     All  this  having  no  influence  upon  the  maiden, 
she  was  taken  to  a  mountain-side  and  beheaded  by  her  own   father. 
As  her  murderer  was   returning   to  the  city,  a  fearful  tempest  broke 

[27] 


upon  him;   "fire  fell  from  heaven  and  consumed  him  utterly,  not  a 
vestige  remaining." 

Such  in  brief  is  the  story  of  the  young  woman  who  became  the  patron 
saint  of  all  such  as  have  to  do  with  fortifications  and  defensive  warfare, 
—  armorers,  gunsmiths,  and  military  engineers.  "  She  is  invoked  against 
thunder  and  lightning  and  all  accidents  which  might  arise  from  explosions." 
Therefore,  when  the  Bombardieri,  the  heavy  artillery  of  Venice, 
wanted  an  altar-piece  for  the  old  church  of  Santa  Maria  Formosa,  some- 
where about  the  year  1575,  Saint  Barbara  was  selected  as  the  peculiarly 
appropriate  subject.  The  execution  of  the  work  was  entrusted  to  Jacopo 
Palma,  called  II  Vecchio,  the  old,  to  distinguish  him  from  his  grand- 
nephew.     The  result  is  Palma  Vecchio's  masterpiece,  one  of  the  most 

beautiful  pictures  in  all  the  world. 

The  print,  reproduced  herewith,  shows  Bar- 
bara standing  upon  a  pedestal  with  a  cannon 
at  each  side.  She  holds  in  her  hand  a  palm 
branch,  symbol  of  victory,  and  wears  the 
martyr's  crown,  with  its  thorns.  Behind  her 
rises  the  fortress  tower  with  its  two  and  three 
windows,  through  which  is  wafted  to  us  across 
the  centuries  the  dialogue  of  the  Golden  Legend. 
The  print  shows  also  the  masterly  compo- 
sition of  the  figure.  A  tracing  of  the  principal 
lines,  herewith  reproduced,  reveals  the  grace  of 
curvature  and  the  perfect  balance  of  the  whole. 
Around  a  central  temperate  reversed  curve  the 
others  are  grouped  with  consummate  skill. 
They  spring  upward  like  the  lines  of  some 
graceful  lily,  from  a  point  beneath  the  feet  of 
the  saint,  now  in  almost  symmetrical  pairs, 
outlining  the  hips  and  the  shoulders,  now  in 
playful  reversed  curves,  tangent  to  these  or 
crossing  them  at  the  most  agreeable  angles. 
Strong  verticals  and  horizontals  near  the  base 
repeat  the  perpendiculars  of  the  frame;  the 
arching  curves  of  the  shoulders  and  of  the 

A  tracing  of  the  main  lines  of  com-     j^^^^j    ^^^iO   the    cirCUmSCribiug    liuc    of   the    tOp 
position  in  ralma  Vecchio  s  r      ^  •  n     r  ••  ri' 

Saint  Barbara  of  the  picture.    A  finer  composition  01   line 


[28\ 


could  not  have  been  produced  by  Raphael  himself.    An  improvement 
of  this  arrangement  is  inconceivable. 

But  the  best  reproduction  in  black  and  white  conveys  nothing  of 
the  wondrous  color  of  the  original.  Barbara's  life  was  a  life  of  loving 
renunciation;  hence  green,  the  symbol  of  fruitfulness,  of  glad  service 
for  others,  does  not  appear  in  the  color  scheme.  All  the  hues  are 
related  to  red,  the  symbol  of  love,  to  orange,  the  symbol  of  benevo- 
lence, and  to  brown,  a  dull  orange,  the  symbol  of  renunciation. 
Her  undergarment  is  of  delicate  dull  orange,  her  robe  of  rich  red- 
brown,  and  her  ample  mantle  of  a  subdued  orange-red.  The  warm 
flesh  tones  of  her  face,  with  the  red-gold  hair  rippling  over  cream- 
white  drapery,  are  enhanced  in  beauty  by  the  far-away  sky  of  delicate 
green-blue  with  low-lying  banks  of  ivory-colored  cloud.  The  effect  is 
indescribable,  exquisite,  entrancing.  The  canvas  is  warm  with  such 
a  glow  as  fills  the  oldest  deepest  forests  of  pine  at  noonday,  when  from 
the  soft  brown  carpet  of  myriads  of  thread-like  leaves,  the  light  is 
reflected  into  the  intricate  traceries  of  gray  twigs  above,  making 
a  gentle  glory  of  the  gloom,  shot  through  with  fragmentary  webs  of 
gold.  In  such  a  noonday-twilight  stands  forevermore  Saint  Barbara. 
Around  her  the  prayers  of  many  generations  have  murmured  like  the 
far-away  music  of  the  pines. 

The  lover  of  beauty  in  Venice  cannot  be  indifferent  to  her  spell.  As 
Yriarte  says,  he  cannot  pass  by  Santa  Maria  Formosa  without  stopping 
for  a  moment  at  least  "to  pay  his  devotions  to  the  lovely  patroness  of 
the  gunnery  of  the  Most  Serene  Republic."  Of  superb  figure,  ripe  and 
rich,  with  no  loss  of  refinement,  with  a  face  of  distinguished  beauty, 
"with  all  the  noble  serenity  of  a  saint  who  is  yet  a  woman,''  Barbara 
stands  as  the  embodiment  of  Browning's  ideal: 

"For  pleasant  Is  this  flesh; 
Our  soul  in  its  rose-mesh. 

As  the  bird  wins  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry,  'All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now, 
than  flesh  helps  soul."* 

Here  is  no  medieval  saint,  attenuated,  with  upturned  eyes  longing 
for  death!    Barbara  embodies  the  modern  ideal  of  sainthood:    perfect 

[29] 


health,  abounding  vitahty,  a  rehgion  that  blooms  and  fruits  here  and 
now.     She  is  a  saint  of  the  type  of  Philhps  Brooks. 

To  me  Saint  Barbara  is  the  picture  of  perfect  womanhood,  perfect 
physically,  intellectually,  spiritually.  She  bears  the  same  relation  to 
all  other  women  ever  put  upon  canvas  that  the  Venus  Milo  bears  to  all 
others  ever  cut  in  marble.  She  constitutes  the  standard  by  which  all 
others  are  measured;  she  stands  alone,  without  a  rival;  she  reigns 
supreme,  the  Queen! 


[30] 


f^iv^m-yAmmrA'y^immm^.^^ 


■myAmm^AmvA^i^.^AmvAVAVA^^^It1 


VI 

THE  MOTHER 

By  JAMES  MacNEIL  WHISTLER 

IN  the  midst  of  the  rival  beauties  of  the  Luxembourg,  gaily  over- 
dressed in  splendid  paint,  or  boldly  nude  in  gleaming  marble,  I 
suddenly  discovered  this  quiet  woman,  modestly  clothed  and  in 
her  right  mind.  She  had  evidently  set  her  face  as  a  flint.  Her 
eyes  looked  straight  forward;  they  would  not  behold  a  wicked 
person.  She  arrested  my  steps.  In  life,  "the  charm  of  her  presence 
was  felt  by  everyone  who  came  near  her."  That  charm  has  been  im- 
mortalized in  this  picture  by  her  immortal  son.  I  lost  desire  for  the 
company  of  others,  that  morning,  and  stood  before  the  canvas  long  and 
long,  until  now  whenever  I  shut  my  eyes  I  can  see  its  subdued  grays, 
its  lustrous  black,  its  pale  cream  and  rose,  and  feel  the  soothing  harmony 
of  its  composition,  like  a  full  deep  soft  chord  of  organ,  music  flooding 
all  the  place  with  peace. 

This  is  the  "arrangement  in  gray  and  black"  that  the  hanging  com- 
mittee of  the  Royal  Academy  rejected  in  1872  until  Sir  William  Boxhall 
forced  its  acceptance  on  threat  of  resignation.  This  is  Mr.  Whistler's 
"beautiful  pattern  of  color  and  of  line"  of  which  he  wrote  to  Fantin, 
"To  me  it  is  interesting  as  a  picture  of  my  mother,  but  what  can  or 
ought  the  public  to  care  about  the  identity  of  the  subject.?" 

The  public  never  has  been  greatly  interested  in  mere  arrangements 
of  color  and  of  line,  and  perhaps  never  will  be.  The  men  and  women 
who  are  sensitive  to  rhythmic  measures  will  always  rejoice  in  the  har- 
monic relations  within  this  frame,  in  the  rhyming  verticals  and  hori- 
zontals, in  the  orderly  scale  of  five  low  values,  in  the  subtle  harmony 
of  analogous  tones,  in  the  perfect  balance  of  diverse  attractions,  in  the 
unassuming  but  absolute  supremacy  of  the  face  over  everything  else; 
but  the  mass  of  men  and  women  who  constitute  the  public  will  always 
be  interested  in  this  picture  primarily  because  of  the  subject  itself,  never 

[31] 


suspecting  that  in  these  very  harmonic  relations,  to  which  the  artist 
gave  hfelong  study,  lies  the  supreme  charm  of  the  picture.  They  are  as 
potent  as  the  drawing  and  modeling  of  the  face  itself  in  producing  the 
impression  which  this  masterpiece  gives,  of  refinement,  dignity,  and 
repose,  of  perfectly  embodied  righteous  Motherhood. 

This  is  a  picture  of  Whistler's  mother,  of  the  woman  who  bore  him 
in  pain,  who  nursed  him  in  sickness,  who  prized  his  first  crude  drawings, 
who  taught  him  his  Bible,  and  brought  him  up  to  hate  insincerity  and 
sham.  She  often  feared  her  boy  was  "not  keeping  to  the  straight  and 
narrow  way,"  she  never  approved  of  his  painting  on  Sunday,  but  never- 
theless she  stood  by  "Jemmie"  through  evil  report  and  good  report, 
and  won  from  him  the  admiration  of  his  passionate  but  locked-up  heart. 
The  haughtly,  insolent,  sharp-tongued  author  of  The  Gentle  Art  of 
Making  Enemies  was  always  "considerate  and  kind  above  all  to  his 
mother."  He  escorted  her  to  church  on  Sunday,  called  her  "Mummy" 
(his  baby  name  for  her)  to  the  end  of  his  days,  and  hung  her  picture  in 
his  bedroom,  where  he  could  see  it  last  at  night  and  first  in  the  morning. 
When  the  dealer,  Mrs.  Noseda,  with  whom  he  was  forced  to  place  it  to 
raise  money  during  his  "hard  times,"  offered  it  for  sale  for  a  hundred 
pounds.  Whistler  gave  her  such  an  abusive  scolding  that  she  became 
ill!  When  at  last  the  picture  was  purchased  by  the  French  Government 
for  the  Luxembourg,  he  said,  "Of  all  my  pictures  I  would  prefer  for 
The  Mother  so  solemn  a  consecration." 

What  a  life  this  Mother  had  lived!  When  in  1842  her  husband  was 
called  to  Russia  to  build  that  famous  railroad,  drawn  by  the  Emperor 
as  everybody  knows,  straight  on  the  map  from  city  to  city,  she  stayed 
behind  until  the  children  should  be  a  little  older.  A  year  later  with  her 
four  children  she  made  the  long  journey  to  join  her  husband  in  Europe. 
One  of  the  precious  boys  sickened  and  died  on  the  way  and  the  little 
body  was  left  at  Cronstadt.  With  what  tears  and  smiles  man  and  wife 
must  have  met!  For  her  husband  she  made  that  "Little  American 
Home"  at  Galernaya.  In  1848  she  was  in  England  with  her  children. 
In  1849  she  was  in  Russia  again,  but  without  the  children.  Then  her 
husband  died.  The  Emperor  started  her  on  the  lonely  journey  to 
England,  in  his  own  royal  barge!  But  what  cared  she  for  the  honor 
with  her  good  man  dead  in  his  service  ?  With  an  income  reduced  from 
^12,000  a  year  to  ^1,500,  she  returned  to  the  United  States  to  educate 
the  boys,  and  to  make  a  home  for  them  at  Pomfret,  Connecticut.    Then 

I32] 


"Jemmie"  went  to  West  Point,  to  Paris,  to  England;  and  to  England 
she  went  again,  there  to  share  his  long  struggle  for  recognition  and 
success. 

When  her  son  asked  her  to  sit  for  this  portrait,  how  surprised  she 
was!  How  she  blushed  and  refused!  How  happy  she  was  within,  and 
how  hesitant  without!  How  embarrassed  when  at  last  she  consented, 
just  to  please  her  boy!  Can  you  not  see  the  little  drama  enacting  again? 
Only  her  best  black  dress  would  be  equal  to  such  an  occasion;  only  her 
best  lace  cap,  only  her  best  lace  handkerchief.  Then  she  let  her  foolish 
boy  place  the  chair  where  he  pleased,  and  she  took  her  seat  before  him. 
The  tired  feet,  that  had  traveled  over  half  the  world  with  him,  were 
placed  decently  together  on  the  low  footstool;  the  old  hands,  worn  with 
a  life  of  hard  work,  were  folded  in  the  lap,  half  hidden  in  the  handker- 
chief. She  thought  they  were  not  beautiful  any  more,  like  the  hands  of 
the  fine  ladies  whom  he  had  been  painting  of  late.  The  shoulders,  bent 
with  the  burden  of  life,  were  rested  against  the  back  of  the  stiff  chair. 
What  use  had  she,  Scotch  by  birth  and  Puritan  by  training,  for  the 
luxurious  ease  of  a  modern  rocker! 

There  she  sits,  alone  in  her  clean  orderly  room.  There  is  no  husband 
now  for  whose  return  to  prepare;  there  are  no  children  now  whose  toys 
must  be  picked  up,  whose  twisted  clothing  must  be  straightened  out 
before  the  morrow.  The  house  is  still.  On  the  wall  are  only  pictures, 
symbols  of  her  memories ;  behind  her,  pictures  known  only  to  herself,  — 
we  judge  of  their  presence  by  the  corner  of  a  frame;  by  her  side  the 
picture  of  the  present  Chelsea,  her  English  home,  which  we  can  make 
out  but  dimly;  before  her  the  dark  curtain,  which  hides  the  future 
from  her  eyes  as  well  as  ours. 

But  what  a  dear  old  face!  Refined,  strong,  sensitive,  "with  an 
intense  pathos  of  significance,  and  tender  depth  of  expression,"  as  Swin- 
burne said,  the  record  of  a  long  brave  life  of  loyal  devotion  to  duty,  of 
self-forgetful  service  of  God  and  man. 

There  she  sits,  all  alone,  waiting;  her  eyes  beholding  the  land  that 
is  afar  off.  Of  the  old  school  in  manner,  a  little  old-fashioned  in  dress, 
a  little  troubled  by  the  laxity  of  her  son's  ways,  a  little  embarrassed  by 
the  prominence  into  which  he  has  forced  her,  but  with  the  eye  of  faith 
undimmed  and  the  native  force  of  her  will  unabated,  that  is  Whistler's 
Mother.  I  gaze  at  her  face  until  I  know  what  was  in  Walt  Whitman's 
heart  when  he  wrote, 

[33] 


"Young  women  are  beautiful, 
But  old  women  are  more  beautiful." 

I  look  at  her  until  my  heart  warms.  Old  memories  come  creeping  back 
to  me.  I  must  have  seen  that  face  somewhere;  I  must  have  known 
that  woman.  Suddenly  my  throat  tightens,  my  eyes  swim  with  tears. 
Ah!  that  is  the  portrait  of  my  Mother,  too;  God  bless  her. 


i34\ 


VII 
JUDITH  WITH  THE  HEAD  OF  HOLOFERNES 

By  BOTTICELLI 

IF  some  fairy  were  to  bid  me  choose  from  among  the  paintings  of 
Sandro  Botticelli  that  which  I  liked  best,  to  be  my  very  own, 
I  would  say  at  once,  the  Judith.  It  is  a  little  painting,  about  a 
square  foot  of  canvas,  in  the  Uffizi  Gallery;  but  to  me  it  is  one  of 
the  great  pictures. 
The  story  of  Judith  is  to  be  found  in  the  Apocryphal  book  of  Judith, 
dating  from  about  the  second  century  b.c.  Briefly  it  is  this:  The 
King  of  Assyria,  angered  because  the  western  provinces  of  his  empire 
refused  to  help  him  in  subduing  Babylonia,  swore  to  avenge  himself  on 
all  mankind,  and  sent  his  chief  general,  Holofernes,  to  **lick  up  the  face 
of  the  earth,"  from  the  Black  Sea  to  the  River  of  Egypt.  This  avenging 
army  was  appallingly  successful  until  it  came  to  Bethulia  at  the  pass 
of  the  hill  country  of  Judea.  The  men  of  this  little  city,  backed  by  the 
whole  Jewish  nation,  recently  returned  from  the  Babylonian  captivity, 
refused,  in  the  name  of  Jehovah,  to  yield  to  the  arrogant  Assyrian.  But 
the  invaders  cut  off  the  water  supply  of  the  town  and  waited  hilariously 
for  famine  to  do  its  fearful  work.  In  those  days  arose  Judith,  a  young 
widow,  wealthy,  beautiful,  devout.  "O  Lord  God  of  my  father  Simeon," 
she  prayed,  "the  Assyrians  are  multiplied  in  their  power:  .  .  .  break 
down  their  stateliness  by  the  hand  of  a  woman."  Then  putting  on 
"her  garments  of  gladness"  she  "decked  herself  to  allure  the  eyes  of  all 
men  that  should  see  her,"  and  taking  with  her  a  single  maidservant  and 
a  parcel  of  provisions,  went  boldly  to  the  Assyrian  camp.  Her  beauty 
and  her  winning  words  brought  her  quickly  to  the  tent  of  Holofernes 
himself,  where  in  the  course  of  the  next  three  days  she  accomplished  all 
she  desired.  "Her  sandals  ravished  his  eyes,  her  beauty  took  his  mind 
prisoner,  and  the  falchion  passed  through  his  neck!"  Giving  his  head 
to  her  servant,  she  passed  safely  out  of  the  Assyrian  camp  and  came  to 
the  gate  of  Bethulia  very  early  in  the  morning.     By  her  advice  the 

[3S] 


Jewish  armies  fell  at  once  upon  their  enemies,  who,  for  lack  of  leader- 
ship, were  thrown  into  confusion,  routed,  despoiled,  and  slaughtered. 
Judith,  hailed  as  Deliverer,  was  given  a  veritable  triumph  at  Jerusalem. 
Thereafter,  though  receiving  offers  of  marriage  from  numberless  princes, 
she  lived  single,  true  to  her  first  love,  managed  her  estates  successfully, 
freed  her  maidservant,  "increased  more  and  more  in  honor,  and  waxed 
old  in  her  husband's  house,  being  a  hundred  and  five  years  old"  when 
she  died  in  peace.  "Judith,"  said  Ruskin,  is  "the  mightiest,  purest, 
brightest  type  of  high  passion  in  severe  womanhood  offered  to  our  human 
memory." 

This  is  the  Judith  that  Botticelli  alone  of  all  the  painters  offers  to 
our  human  vision.  Here  she  is  returning  with  the  light  of  the  old 
moon  silvering  her  violet  garments  of  gladness,  while  the  east  brightens 
to  the  day  of  victory.  She  walks  gracefully,  without  haste,  the  breeze 
of  the  morning  fluttering  her  robes  and  playing  with  her  golden  hair;  in 
one  hand  the  avenging  sword,  in  the  other  the  olive  branch  prophetic  of 
the  peace  to  be. 

This  picture  shows  me  first  the  contrast  between  the  free-born  and 
the  slave.  Compare  the  pose  of  Judith  with  that  of  her  maid!  Com- 
pare the  lines  of  the  two  figures  beneath  the  draperies,  —  body,  arm, 
leg.    In  one  see 

"The  grace  of  God  made  manifest  in  curves," 

in  the  other  the  stiffness  and  angularity  of  an  unresponsive  frame. 
Compare  the  two  feet  (one  with  enlarged  joints,  too  deformed  to  be 
revealed,  the  other  too  beautiful  to  be  hidden);  the  two  nearer  hands 
(one  holding  the  sword-hilt,  the  other  clutching  the  dress) ;  the  two  more 
distant  hands;  the  two  necks;  the  two  heads;  the  two  faces,  feature  by 
feature.     Were  ever  queen  and  peasant  more  perfectly  displayed? 

But  the  face  of  Judith  is  the  supreme  attraction.  To  this  all  the 
lines  of  composition  conspire  to  lead  the  eye.  "When  a  man  is  true 
at  the  heart  he  sanctifies  his  weaknesses  into  virtues,"  exclaims  Ruskin, 
when  commenting  on  this  painting  in  his  Mornings  in  Florence.  That 
falling  pose  of  the  head,  so  unhappy  in  many  of  Botticelli's  figures,  that 
look  of  dreamy  abstraction,  so  out  of  place  in  the  Pallas,  are  here  the 
very  touches  needed  to  perfect  the  picture.  Reread  the  book  of  Judith 
and  then  ask  how  else  this  face  should  be  interpreted.  At  this  moment 
of  success  when  the  visit  to  the  camp  is  ended  —  a  bad  dream  —  and  she 

[36] 


returns  to  home  and  sanctuary,  will  men  believe  her  story?  Will  God 
forgive  her  lies?  And  that  good  man,  Manasses,  three  years  dead,  her 
husband-lover,  dearer  now  than  ever  to  her  heart,  does  he  know  aught 
of  this?  These  garments  that  made  glad  the  captain  of  the  host  were 
the  garments  that  he  loved !  ^  Would  he  approve  ?  And  so,  unconscious 
of  her  beauty,  joyless  in  her  triumph,  forgetful  of  the  ghastly  horror  near 
at  hand,  and  of  the  tumult  in  the  fortress-camp  below,  she  moves  along 
the  rocky  path  that  leads  her  to  Bethulia,  "so  utterly  a  woman." 

In  one  respect  this  high-born  maiden  and  her  slave  are  equal.  From 
first  to  last  they  serve  a  higher  will,  the  slave  the  will  of  Judith,  Judith 
the  will  of  God.  Right  or  wrong,  they  do  what  seems  their  duty  at  the 
time.  Can  any  loyal  soul  do  less?  Can  any  loving  soul  do  more?  In 
following  this  ancient  story  one  cannot  but  admire  this  serving-maid, 
who  speaks  not  once  through  it  all  but  perfectly  performs.  Homely, 
awkward,  so  obtuse  that  she  does  not  even  keep  step  with  her  mistress, 
her  eyes  are  riveted  upon  her  to  obey  her  slightest  nod.  What  wonder 
that  she  won  the  love  of  Judith  and  at  last  her  freedom.  Immortal  like 
her  mistress,  her  reward  is  the  highest  that  Love  can  offer  to  Devotion: 
"His  servants  shall  serve  Him,  and  they  shall  see  His  face  forevermore." 

Judith  and  her  maid  are  Loyalty  incarnate,  types  of  those  who  through 
self-sacrificing  devotion  to  duty,  to  the  inner  voice,  to  the  vision,  achieve 
victories  for  themselves  and  for  their  fellowmen,  and  thereby  are  workers 
together  with  God. 

"Stainless  soldier  on  the  walls, 
Knowing  this,  —  and  knows  no  more,  — 
Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls, 
Justice  conquers  evermore, 
Justice  after  as  before,  — 
And  he  who  battles  on  her  side, 
God,  though  he  were  ten  times  slain. 
Crowns  him  victor  glorified, 
Victor  over  death  and  pain." 


See  the  book  of  Judith,  Chapter  x,  verse  3. 


[37] 


VIII 
THE  GOLDEN  STAIRS 

By  sir  EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 

I  FELL  in  love  with  the  Golden  Stairs  at  first  sight,  and  in  photo- 
graph, where  nothing  appeared  golden  but  the  silence  of  those 
graceful  maidens.  For  months  the  print  hung  in  my  study  where 
I  could  see  it  every  time  I  looked  up.  I  was  told  that  the  picture 
was  designed  in  1872,  actually  begun  in  1876,  and  finished  in  1880. 
Eight  years  of  brooding!  Thrice  was  it  named,  — The  King's  Wedding, 
Music  on  the  Stairs,  The  Golden  Stairs.  After  all  what  matters  life- 
history  or  name?  The  thing  is  beautiful.  Isn't  that  sufficient  excuse 
for  being  ?  But  I  could  not  resist  its  invitation.  The  picture  challenged 
me  perpetually  to  discover  a  meaning  in  those  orderly  arrangements  of 
line  and  austerities  of  composition.  Burne-Jones,  bred  in  the  atmosphere 
of  learning  and  religion,  dedicated  to  the  church,  a  poet  in  thought  and  a 
symbolist  by  nature,  could  not  have  spent  eight  years  on  a  meaningless 
design!    It  must  carry  a  message  of  some  sort  from  his  heart  to  mine. 

I  searched  every  square  inch  of  its  surface.  I  found  a  procession 
without  beginning  and  without  end,  coming  from  above,  descending, 
careless  of  perspective,  a  narrow  unguarded  stairway  of  marble,  and 
disappearing  within  a  darkened  room.  In  the  upper  part  of  the  picture 
doves  are  making  love  to  one  another  in  the  sunshine,  two  swallows 
have  found  a  home  for  themselves  beneath  the  eaves,  and  roses 
bloom  on  the  wall.  In  the  lower  part  a  laurel  stands  by  an  open 
door.  At  first  the  maidens  look  forward,  at  last  they  all  look  back- 
ward. Some  are  pensive,  some  are  anxious,  some  dream,  some  are 
sad;  only  one  is  joyous,  and  her  joy  swims  upon  the  top  of  fear. 
Some  are  crowned  with  flowers,  some  wear  mourning,  sprays  of  cypress 
have  fallen  on  the  stairs.  Many  have  musical  instruments  —  perhaps 
all  —  but  only  two  or  three  are  playing,  and  these  with  the  spirit 
far  away.  One  maiden  listens  to  sounds  from  the  darkened  room, 
two  maidens  talk  together  pleasantly,  three  whisper  to  one  another, 

[39] 


fearfully.     All  look  alike,  and  yet  are  different;   each  seems  free,  but 

is  held  fast  in  the  severe  lines  of  the  design. 
Turn  the  picture  and  see  how  sharply  defined 
those  lines  are.  The  curve  of  the  stairs,  A, 
is  completed  by  the  edges  of  the  robes.  This 
curve  is  echoed  by  another,  B,  which  binds  the 
upper  maidens  to  those  below,  and  then,  to 
make  assurance  doubly  sure,  a  third  great 
curve,  C,  binds  these  two  together.  Not  a 
I  feature  is  out  of  place;  every  spot  and  line, 
every  fold  and  surface  helps  define  the  har- 
mony of  pattern.  The  King's  Wedding.? 
then  a  most  solemn  one!  Music  on  the 
Stairs?  then  most  inadequate  music!  The 
Golden  Stairs.?  One  cannot  think  of  stairs 
while  the  mysterious  procession  is  descending! 
No;  the  picture  has  a  deeper  meaning.  It  is 
a  symbol  of  something  vast  and  rich.  What 
is  its  message? 
One    red-letter    day   on    an    express    train    in 

Montana  I  heard  Dr.  William  T.  Harris  interpret  Emerson's  Days: 

"Daughters  of  time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 
To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will; 
Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 
I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp. 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late. 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn.'* 

Since  that  time  the  Golden  Stairs  has  been  to  me  another  poem  on 
the  Days,  divinely  beautiful.  In  Emerson's  vision  the  Days  offer  gifts 
to  man  and  pass  judgments  on  his  choices;  ^  in  the  vision  of  Burne- 
Jones  the  Days  are  a  procession  of  Memories. 

*  Compare  Paul,  "  Every  man's  work  shall  be  made  manifest,  for  the  day  shall  declare  it.  If  any 
man's  work  abide,  he  shall  receive  a  reward.  If  any  man's  work  shall  be  burned,  he  shall  suffer  loss." 
See  I  Corinthians  xxxii  :  10-15. 


V         >-, 

\    \ 

\          ^ 

\          \ 

\           \ 

1           \ 

a  V  ? 

-"          \       ' 

\       1 

1      / 

1     t 

// 

y/   / 

.T--- 

1 

\40\ 


How  true  to  my  own  experiences  the  poem-picture  is!  As  I  review 
my  life  I  see  its  Days,  daughters  of  father  Time,  marching  single  in  an 
endless  file,  coming,  I  know  not  whence,  except  from  God  above,  and 
going,  I  know  not  whither,  except  through  the  dark  portal  of  the  tomb. 
In  youth  I  looked  forward.  Those  were  the  days  when  the  blue  sky 
brought  heaven  near,  and  the  gay  flowers  bloomed,  and  I  made  love 
like  the  doves,  and  furnished  my  nest  like  the  swallow.  Then  came  a 
day  when  I  was  conscious  that  shades  of  the  prison  house  were  closing 
about  my  spirit,  and  I  heard  a  voice. 

Just  heard,  ^ 

From  some  far  shore, 
The  final  chorus  sounding. 

I  remember  the  day  of  my  first  bereavement,  when  my  arm  seemed 
bound  with  crepe.  I  remember  the  day  when  at  last  I  dropped  the 
cypress  spray  of  a  great  sorrow  and  my  spirit  sang  again.  I  have  had 
my  days  of  joy,  of  doubt,  of  fear,  of  dream;  I  remember  days  that  stand 
apart  from  all  others.  I  remember  one  group  of  days  so  crowded  with 
happy  experiences  that  I  cannot  now  assign  to  each  day  its  due.  I 
know  that  now  I  am  beginning  to  look  backward;  my  thoughts  are  too 
ready  to  fall  into  the  formulas  with  which  age  begins  to  preach:  "When 
I  was  young,  —  ah,  in  those  days,  —  we  used  to  do  so  differently!" 
The  days  of  my  youth  seem  as  near  and  as  real  to  me  as  yesterday;  in 
fact  the  early  days  loom  larger  than  to-day,  as  Burne-Jones  suggests. 
I  know,  too,  that  there  will  come  a  day  when  my  head  shall  wear  the 
laurel  wreath  of  the  victor,  or  go  crownless  through  the  narrow  portal 
of  the  grave.  I  see  now  that  while  each  day  I  felt  free  to  play  or  to  keep 
silent  as  seemed  good  to  me  at  the  moment,  I  was  not  wholly  free.  Each 
day  formed  a  part  of  a  whole  I  did  not  plan  and  could  not  know.  I 
realize  that  any  day  I  might  have  met  with  accident  through  care- 
lessness or  wilfulness,  but  that  I  have  been  kept  from  falling  by  some 
gracious  Providence  that  will  continue  to  guide  my  steps  to  the  end. 
I  admit  that  I  have  been  an  unprofitable  servant.  Many  a  day,  with 
the  fair  gift  of  God  in  my  hand,  I  have  made  no  music;  many  a  day 
I  have  communed  with  my  own  sad  heart  when  I  should  have  cheered 
my  neighbor  in  his  grief.  But  on  the  whole,  life  has  been  good,  —  the 
stair  has  been  golden. 

After  twenty  years  with  this  picture  in  photograph  only,  I  saw  the 

[41] 


original  painting.  The  stairs  are  golden  indeed!  The  whole  canvas 
burns  with  the  soft,  subdued  radiance  of  an  Indian  summer  afternoon, 
when  all  the  earth  seems  waiting  for  a  revelation.  As  I  sat  long  before 
it,  something  of  the  peace  that  passes  understanding  stole  upon  my 
spirit,  a  peace  that  glowed  with  joy  when  I  discovered  that  the  lowly 
portal  did  not  give  entrance  to  a  darkened  room,  as  I  had  thought,  but 
to  a  hall  whose  golden  roof  was  upheld  by  polished  shafts  of  precious 
marble.  Perhaps,  at  last,  what  seemed  to  me  the  iron  grating  of  a  tomb 
may  prove  to  be  the  pillars  in  the  temple  of  my  God. 


[42] 


2&i«r^i*»V!»A*»W»l^tyKt«riit»J*t»At^^^ 


m 


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ivyyAmvAVAmmrivimmmmvAmmyiivv^^^ 


IX 

THE  SISTINE  MADONNA 

By  RAPHAEL  SANZIO 

/T  the  Royal  Gallery  of  Dresden  in  a  small  room,  alone,  is  the 
i        Sistine  Madonna.     Its  setting  is  an  altar-like  structure,  upon 
%      the  base  of  which  a  quotation  from  Vasari  identifies  the 
m.    picture  and  gives  us  his  opinion  of  it :  "  For  the  Black  Monks 
of  San  Sisto  in  Piacenza,  Raphael  painted  a  picture  for  the 
high  altar,  showing  Our  Lady  with  St.  Sixtus  and  St.  Barbara  —  truly 
a  work  most  excellent  and  rare."     For  nearly  four  centuries  now,  Vasari's 
opinion  has  been  the  verdict  of  the  world. 

At  first  glance  the  picture  seems  small  —  the  forms  are  less  than 
life  size  —  and  to  eyes  educated  by  the  Gran'  Duca  and  the  Madonna 
of  the  Chair,  it  appears  rather  dull  in  color.  Against  a  background  of 
blue-gray,  becoming  warmer  toward  the  center  of  the  picture,  stands 
the  Virgin.  The  upper  portion  of  her  robe  is  pink,  deepening  to  red  in 
the  shades,  over  a  vest  of  violet-gray.  The  lower  portion  is  blue  over  a 
skirt  of  red.  The  scarf  thrown  over  the  shoulder  is  cream-white.  The 
veil  flowing  from  behind  the  head  is  a  warm  gray.  Saint  Sixtus  is  clothed 
in  yellow  and  orange  brocade,  lined  with  red,  flung  over  ^  soft  under- 
garment of  ivory  white.  Saint  Barbara's  sleeves  are  of  yellow  and  orange 
changeable  silk  with  blue  between  the  elbow  and  the  shoulder.  Her 
skirt  is  gray;  the  mantle  is  yellow-green.  The  clouds  beneath  are  of 
a  warm  gray.  The  curtains  are  dull  green,  and  the  green  is  repeated, 
with  red,  in  the  wings  of  the  cherubs.  The  larger  areas  of  green,  blue, 
and  gray  seem  to  give  a  dominance  to  the  cooler  colors;  but  presently 
one  discovers  that  the  colors  are  more  subdued  and  the  contrasts  softer 
than  usual,  and  that  the  whole  canvas  is  suffused  with  the  dim  green- 
golden  light  of  a  forest  glade  in  September.  In  consequence  the  unity 
of  the  whole  is  much  greater  in  the  original  than  in  the  reproductions. 
No  one  would  ever  think  of  being  satisfied  with  a  circle  cut  from  the 
upper  part  of  the  picture,  except  in  photograph. 

[43] 


Occasionally  some  critic  is  pleased  to  pick  flaws  in  this  masterpiece. 
An  American  painter,  whose  works  were  greater  in  his  own  eyes  than  in 
the  eyes  of  his  contemporaries,  used  to  enjoy  saying  contemptuously 
that  certain  of  his  acquaintances  were  in  the  "  Sistine-Madonna  stage  of 
art  appreciation."  Just  what  he  meant  by  that  he  never  condescended 
to  explain.  The  picture  is  by  one  whom  the  Blashfields  rank  "in  the 
art  pf  composition,  the  greatest  master  of  the  modern  world;"  by  one 
whom  Berenson  declares  to  have  been  "endowed  with  a  visual  imagina- 
tion which  has  never  been  rivaled  for  range,  sweep,  and  sanity;"  by  one 
in  whose  art,  according  to  Symonds,  "thought,  passion,  and  emotion, 
became  living  melody." 

The  Sistine  Madonna,  "the  sublimest  lyric  of  the  art  of  Catholicity," 
in  the  opinion  of  Liibke,  "is  and  will  continue  to  be  the  apex  of  all 
religious  art."  To  me  it  is  just  that,  the  apex  of  all  religious  art.  It 
rises  out  of  the  realm  of  the  particular  and  temporal  into  the  realm  of 
the  universal  and  eternal.  It  embodies  in  visible  loveliness  the  things 
that  abide ;  it  sets  forth  in  inimitable  beauty  the  attitude  of  the  human 
spirit  towards  "the  Power  not  ourselves  that  makes  for  righteousness." 

Sixtus  is  the  embodiment  of  hope.  A  man  of  mature  years,  seeing 
clearly  the  needs  of  his  fellowmen,  and  knowing  well  his  own  limitations, 
he  looks  to  the  Divine  for  aid.  Raphael  has  represented  him  kneeling 
devoutly  at  the  moment  when  by  gesture  and  voice  he  is  calling  the  atten- 
tion of  the  new-born  Saviour  of  the  world  to  the  needs  of  the  vast  congre- 
gation which  the  drawing  of  the  curtain  has  just  revealed.  His  attitude 
is  the  attitude  of  the  Psalmist:  "Our  hope  is  only  in  thee."  It  is  the 
attitude  of  Peter:  "Help,  Lord,  or  we  perish."  Is  not  that  the  attitude 
of  thoughtful  men  everywhere  to-day?  The  reformer  looks  to  Him  who 
said,  "All  ye  are  brethren;"  the  teacher  of  ethics  to  Him  who  gave  the 
golden  rule;  the  student  to  Him  who  said,  "Ye  shall  know  the  truth, 
and  the  truth  shall  make  you  free."  The  eyes  of  all  who  suffer  turn 
involuntarily  to  the  One  who  invited  the  weary  and  heavy  laden  to 
come  to  Him  and  rest.  The  hope  of  mankind  for  a  larger  and  more 
abundant  life  is  in  God  as  revealed  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ. 

Saint  Barbara  is  the  embodiment  of  love.  In  the  face  of  love  there 
is  no  question,  no  doubt.  Love  need  not  even  look  above.  "My 
beloved  is  mine  and  I  am  his,"  that  is  enough.  But  love  must  look 
around :  "  Behold  if  God  so  loved  us,  we  ought  also  to  love  one  another." 
The  one  immediate  possible   object   of  affectionate   service  for  Saint 

[44] 


Barbara  is  this  pair  of  cherubs  who  seem  to  have  strayed  away  from 
the  celestial  host  in  the  sky  and  are  lost,  in  abstraction  at  least. 
Love  would  be  of  some  comfort  to  somebody  at  once,  for  Love  hears  a 
voice  that  says,  "Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of 
these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me."  While  hope  sees  the  need 
and  looks  above  for  help,  love  sees  the  need  and  looks  around  for  oppor- 
tunity. Love  goes  to  work,  enduring  all  things,  and  in  women  sometimes 
never  failing  even  when  the  task  is  hopeless. 

Raphael,  "  the  supreme  assimilator  of  all  and  every  material  that  was 
fitted  to  the  purposes  of  art,"  did  not  despise  the  traditional  symbolism  of 
colors.  Sixtus  loves,  hence  his  robe  has  a  red  lining;  over  this  runs  an 
ordered  pattern  in  yellow  and  orange,  the  symbols  of  thoughtful  wisdom 
and  benevolence.  He  wishes  the  good,  as  he  sees  it,  for  all;  he  will  ask 
divine  aid,  but  there  his  activity  ends.  In  Barbara's  robes  the  yellow  and 
orange,  the  wisdom  and  benevolence,  flood  together  indiscriminately,  and 
over  this  is  flung  a  mantle  of  green,  the  symbol  of  fruitfulness,  of  that 
outflowing  love  that  does  not  rest  satisfied  without  manifesting  itself  con- 
stantly in  good  deeds.  "Not  every  one  that  saith  unto  me.  Lord,  Lord, 
shall  enter  into  the  kingdom,  but  he  that  doeth  the  will  of  my  Father." 
This  involves  a  degree  of  self-renunciation,  hence  her  skirt  is  gray.  The 
ideal  love  is  love  without  weakness ;  the  love  that  is  just,  as  well  as  generous, 
hence  Barbara's  arm  wears  blue,  the  badge  of  truth  and  justice. 

Mary  is  faith  incarnate.  What  a  face  she  has!  How  beautiful! 
And  for  delicate  suggestion  of  deep  emotion  it  has  but  one  superior  in 
the  whole  range  of  art,  namely,  that  beardless  face  of  the  Christ  by 
Leonardo.  A  blind,  unintelligent  faith  fears  nothing,  because  it  knows 
nothing;  an  informed  faith  may  have  the  assurance  of  certainty,  but 
then  it  ceases  to  be  faith,  having  passed  over  into  knowledge.  In  true 
faith  there  lurks  forever  the  question,  the  uncertainty,  the  possibility 
of  doubt.     That  is  the  secret  of  the  look  in  Mary's  face. 

"We  have  but  faith;  we  cannot  know; 
For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see.'* 

There  come  moments  of  bitter  experience  when  every  human  soul 
exclaims  with  Tennyson : 

"I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 

Upon  the  great  world's  altar  stairs 

That  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God, 

r^5i 


I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope 

And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 

To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 
And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope." 

•  For  the  instant  of  revelation  which  Raphael  has  depicted,  even  Mary, 
with  the  Hving  pledge  of  infinite  love  in  her  arms,  tastes  the  bitterness 
of  this  cup  that  the  Father  presses  to  the  lips  of  human  faith  in  its  every 
Gethsemane.  The  prophecy  of  Simeon  is  fulfilled,  yea,  the  sword  has 
pierced  her  own  soul  also;  but  her  eyes  turn  not  away.  Faith  would 
not  be  faith  that  could  not  suffer  and  endure.  Mary's  experience  has 
been  the  experience  of  the  faithful  in  every  age.  Her  attitude  is  typical 
of  the  attitude  our  race  has  maintained  towards  the  Son  of  Mary  for 
nineteen  hundred  years.  We  question,  yet  believe;  we  see  the  worst, 
yet  trust  the  best.  Men  regret  the  bloody  history  of  Christ's  religion, 
they  neglect  His  church,  they  will  not  have  this  man  to  reign  over  them, 
and  yet  from  their  beds  of  pain  they  reach  out  eager  hands  to  touch  His 
seamless  dress  for  healing,  and  over  their  dead  bodies  they  would  have 
repeated  the  august  words,  "I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life."  Mary 
is  the  faith  of  the  world,  pondering  all  these  things  in  its  heart,  pierced 
through  with  many  sorrows,  yet  with  passionate  tenderness  still  holding 
the  Christ  of  God  in  its  arms. 

But  after  all,  the  supreme  thing  in  the  picture  is  the  Child.  Place 
side  by  side  all  the  faces  of  the  infant  Christ  ever  painted,  and  arrange 
them  in  the  order  of  physical  beauty,  of  intellectual  promise,  of  spiritual 
possibility,  or  of  suggestion  of  the  Divine,  and  in  every  case  this  face 
would  have  to  be  placed  first.  Scores  of  times  Raphael  had  tried  to  do 
the  impossible,  to  paint  the  face  of  the  divine-human  child ;  in  this,  his 
last  attempt,  he  succeeded. ^  There  is  in  this  face  all  the  deep  implying 
of  beautiful  infant  faces  everywhere,  but  in  addition  it  carries  something 
of  that  nature  which  merited  the  distinction  of  being  hailed  as  "  chiefest 
among  ten  thousand  and  altogether  lovely,"  and  was  given  the  unique 
honor  of  being  called  the  only  begotten  Son  of  God. 

But  why  that  startled  look,  that  look  of  painful  surprise,  that  look  of 
fear,  in  this  divine  little  face? 

Interpreters  of  the  picture  have  always  said  that  the  curtains  were 


^This  type  of  face,  perfected  by  Raphael,  has  been  accepted  by  other  painters  as  conclusive.  It  is 
this  child  grown  to  twelve  years  of  age  that  Hoffman  shows  us  in  the  midst  of  the  doctors  in  the  temple, 
and  it  is  this  same  child  grown  to  splendid  manhood  that  appears  in  his  Christ  and  the  Rich  Young  Ruler. 

[46] 


drawn  apart  that  we  might  have  the  vision.  Undoubtedly  that  is  true; 
but  at  the  same  time,  Mary  and  her  Son,  coming  from  the  glory  unspeak- 
able, are  given  a  sudden  vision  of  mankind.  This  superhuman  child 
sees  before  him  not  only  the  kneeling  congregation  to  which  Sixtus  calls 
his  attention,  but  the  vast  multitude  behind  and  beyond  it.  He  sees  his 
own  future.  He  sees  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  the  first  to  suffer 
in  His  name;  the  thousands  enduring  the  tortures  inflicted  by  pagan 
Rome;  the  millions  dying  in  the  religious  crusades,  wars,  and  massacres 
of  "Christian  history*'  during  fifteen  hundred  years.  What  wonder 
that  the  child  who  had  been  called  the  bringer  of  goodwill  to  men  and 
the  Prince  of  Peace,  should  be  appalled  at  such  a  vision,  and  pierced 
with  sudden  fear.  "He  is  wounded  by  our  transgressions,  and  the 
chastisement  of  our  peace  is  upon  Him."  ^ 

As  I  sat  there,  in  that  quiet  room  in  the  Royal  Gallery,  so  much  alone, 
gazing  at  this  greatest  of  religious  pictures,  I  realized  as  never  before 
the  universality  of  its  appeal.  Generations  of  pilgrims  from  all  countries 
have  bowed  before  it,  in  silence,  in  admiration,  and  in  tears.  Who  of 
them  all  has  not  found  by  bitter  experience,  like  Sixtus,  that  his  hope  is 
in  God  alone?  Who  has  not  felt  with  Barbara  that  love  to  God  must 
show  itself  in  service  to  others?  Who  has  not  memories  of  supreme 
moments  when  the  faith  of  Mary  was  his,  and  he  could  exclaim  with  one 
of  old,  "Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him*'  ?  And  who  has  not 
in  some  open  hour  shared  the  vision  of  this  divine  child,  and  realized  with 
crushing  certainty  that  the  way  to  victory  is  ever  the  way  of  the  cross  ? 

"Our  little  systems  have  their  day, 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be," 

but  one  stubborn  belief  endures  forever  in  the  heart  of  mankind,  the 
belief  that  some  intimate  relation  exists  between  humanity  and  God. 
Perhaps  some  day  all  the  world  will  see  that  that  relation  —  a  relation 
revealed  in  Christianity  and  summed  up  in  the  words.  Faith,  Hope, 
Love,  and  Sacrifice,  —  is  as  beautiful  as  Raphael  has  made  it  appear 
in  the  Sistine  Madonna.  All  the  seers  of  the  race  justify  Raphael  in 
placing  beyond  his  manifestation  of  these  four  things  that  abide,  a 
background  where  angel  faces  smile  amid  the  infinite  splendors  of  heaven. 

^  So  far  as  I  know,  Dr.  William  T.  Harris  was  the  first  to  suggest  this  adequate  interpretation  of  the 
child's  face.     Personally,  at  least,  I  have  to  thank  him  for  this  insight. 


U7\ 


KVAyAVATArAVAm^ArA-rm-T:^ 


^fKMyffTOmm^^i^AW^^ 


X 

THE  TRANSFIGURATION 
By  RAPHAEL 

WHILE  the  "authorities"  are  deciding  whether  bitter  par- 
tisanship in  Roman  society  in  the  year  15 17,  or  an  intense 
professional  rivalry,  or  the  authority  or  the  generosity  of 
Cardinal  Giulio  de'  Medici,  was  originally  responsible  for 
the  Transfiguration,  we  may  be  thankful  to  Raphael  for 
the  picture  itself.  Vasari  says  Raphael  executed  it  with  his  own  hand, 
"and  laboring  at  it  continually,  he  brought  it  to  the  highest  perfection. 
By  the  common  consent  of  all  artists,"  Vasari  adds,  **it  is  declared  to 
be  the  most  worthily  renowned,  the  most  excellent,  the  most  divine." 
The  Blashfields  say  that  "criticism  in  general  for  two  hundred  years 
repeated  after  Vasari  that  the  Transfiguration  is  the  greatest  of  all  pic- 
tures." At  the  present  time  the  consensus  of  competent  opinion  does 
not  place  the  picture  quite  so  high ;  but  it  must  be  counted  always  among 
the  pictures  of  the  highest  rank. 

The  Transfiguration  was  designed  by  Raphael  as  a  decoration  for  the 
cathedral  at  Narbonne,  as  the  Assumption  was  designed  by  Titian  as  a 
decoration  for  the  church  of  the  Frari.  Hence  he  does  not  hesitate  to 
suggest  on  one  canvas  three  worlds,  as  Titian  did,  nor  to  bring  together 
as  have  other  great  decorators,  events  in  reality  far  apart.  ^ 

The  upper  portion  of  the  picture  presents  an  event  which  took  place, 
according  to  the  most  reputable  authorities,  on  Mount  Hermon  (9500 
feet  high),  while  the  lower  part  illustrates  an  incident  which  is  supposed 

^  Strictly  speaking,  a  decoration  differs  from  a  picture.  A  picture  has  one  center  of  interest;  a  decora- 
tion may  have  several  centers.  A  picture  is  confined  to  one  incident  and  to  one  moment  of  time;  a  decoration 
may  recount  several  incidents  and  eliminate  the  time  element  entirely.  Michelangelo's  Holy  Family  is  a 
painting;  his  Temptation  and  Expulsion  panel  is  a  decoration.  Titian's  Flora  is  a  painting;  his  Assumption 
is  a  decoration.  Guido  Reni's  Saint  Sebastian  is  a  picture;  his  Aurora,  a  decoration.  Abbey's  Holy  Grail 
"decorations"  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  are  pictures.  Chavannes'  "picture,"  the  Sacred  Grove,  in  the 
Sorbonne,  Paris,  is  a  decoration.  Pictures  are  not,  legitimately,  decorations.  The  two  have  been  inex- 
tricably confused  in  the  practice  and  discussion  of  painting.  A  recognition  of  this  fundamental  distinction 
would  have  obviated  volumes  of  words  about  the  composition  of  masterpieces. 

I49] 


to  have  occurred  about  the  same  time  near  Caesarea  PhiHppi,  a  place 
some  twelve  miles  distant.^  With  the  insight  and  skill  of  genius,  Raphael 
has  brought  these  together,  and  added  besides  the  figures  of  Giuliano  de' 
Medici,  the  father  of  the  cardinal  for  whom  the  picture  was  painted,  and 
the  cardinal's  uncle,  "Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,"  in  the  guise  of  Saint 
Julian  and  Saint  Lawrence,  messengers  pro  tern. 

"It  is  safe  to  aflfirm,"  says  Dr.  Harris,  "that  there  is  scarcely  a  picture 
in  existence  in  which  the  individualities  are  more  strongly  marked  by 
internal  essential  characteristics."  2  ^ 

The  suppliants  are  an  astonishing  family  group.  The  center  of  this 
group  is  the  boy,  actually  "possessed;"  his  father  —  a  man  evidently 
predisposed  to  insanity  —  is  supporting  and  restraining  him;  behind  the 
father  stands  his  brother,  the  boy's  uncle,  whose  features  and  gestures 
show  him  to  be  a  simpleton;  at  this  man's  right  stands  his  sister,  also 
a  weak-minded  person.  The  boy's  mother,  her  fair  Grecian  face  worn 
with  her  long  trial,  kneels  at  his  right ;  beyond  her  is  her  brother,  and  in 
the  shade  of  the  mountain,  her  father.  In  the  foreground  kneels  her 
beautiful  sister,  "noble  in  attitude  and  proportions." 

In  the  group  of  the  disciples  the  characters  are  equally  unmistakable. 
At  the  left  is  Judas,  scornfully  impatient  with  the  whole  situation,  and 
next  him  James  the  Less ;  below  him  sits  Philip,  suggesting  the  advisability 
of  going  for  the  Master.  The  man  with  the  book,  symbol  of  human 
wisdom,  is  Andrew;  beyond  him  Jude,  looking  at  the  demoniac's  father, 
points  to  the  mount.  Leaning  forward,  intently  studying  the  boy,  is 
Thomas.  Next  him  sits  Simon,  regretting,  by  the  gesture  of  his  left  hand, 
the  absence  of  the  Master.  Beyond  these,  next  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain, Bartholomew,  pointing  to  the  demoniac,  discusses  the  situation 
with  Matthew. 

In  the  group  on  the  mountain-top  James  kneels,  completely  over- 
come ;  Peter  is  trying  to  look  upward  through  his  fingers ;  John  gracefully 
shields  his  face  with  his  hand.  At  the  left  above  James  appears  Elijah 
the  fearless  prophet,  and  at  the  right  above  John,  Moses  the  peerless 
law-giver,  with  his  "tables  of  stone."  Central,  dominating  the  whole, 
soars  the  figure  of  the  Christ,  looking  calmly  into  the  face  of  the  Infinite. 

Speaking  of  the  arrangement  of  the  picture,   the  Blashfields  say, 

^  See  Mark  ix:  2-29.     Compare  also  Matthew  xvii:  1-21  and  Luke  ix:  28-42. 

*  See  Notes  on  Raphael's  Transfiguration,  by  Dr.  William  T.  Harris,  in  his  Journal  of  Speculative 
Philosophy,  Vol.  I,  p.  53,  to  which  article  I  am  greatly  indebted. 

[50] 


"Here  as  always  Raphael  has  proved  himself  a  consummate  master  of 
composition;  .  .  .  only  Raphael  could  have  designed  the  picture."  A 
rough  tracing  of  the  principal  lines  gives  a  suggestion  of  the  pattern. 

From  the  graceful  central  figure  at  the  top,  long  radiating  curves  seem 
to  sweep  outward  to  every  part  of  the  canvas.  The  lines  of  first  impor- 
tance in  all  the  figures  are  related  to  these  curves.  In  the  tracing,  the 
full  lines  indicate  this  primary  series.  The  original  drawings  of  Raphael 
afford  ample  evidence  that  this  thinking 
in  curves,  this  linking  of  little  to  large, 
this  feeling  for  unity  through  flow  of  line, 
is  a  chief  characteristic  of  the  master. 

A  subordinate  series  of  radiating  lines, 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  picture  indicated 
in  the  tracing  by  dotted  lines,  directs 
the  eye  unmistakably  to  the  figure  of 
secondary  importance,  that  of  the 
demoniac. 

From  the  head  of  the  Christ  an  out- 
ward influence  seems  to  move,  in  ripples, 
as  from  an  object  plunged  into  still  water. 
These  concentric  curves  cutting  the  fan 
of  the  first  series  everywhere  at  right 
angles,  suggested  in  the  tracing  by  the 
lighter  dotted  lines,  determine  the  atti- 
tude of  the  arms  in  the  central  figure,  the  positions  of  the  heads  and 
of  the  skirts  of  the  robes  in  the  companion  figures,  and  the  locations 
of  all  objects  upon  the  mountain-top.  The  outermost  curve  in  this 
series  runs  through  the  groups  of  figures  in  the  foreground. 

How  skilfully  all  the  heads  are  disposed  upon  this  network!  Each 
seems  to  have  been  free  to  take  any  position  or  attitude  it  pleased, 
yet  each  is  in  exactly  the  right  place  to  enhance  the  beauty  of  pattern. 
The  same  is  true  of  every  limb,  of  every  fold  of  drapery,  of  every  spot 
of  light  and  dark  in  the  picture. 

I  cannot  believe  that  the  "lines  which  cross  one  another  roughly," 
the  "harsh  and  conflicting  colors  and  dark  shadows"  of  the  lower  part 
of  the  picture,  are  to  be  charged  up  against  Julio  Romano  or  any  other 
than  the  great  master  himself.  Raphael  was  embodying  an  idea  in 
this  decoration,  he  was  not  making  a  pleasing  colored  photograph  from 


ISi] 


nature.  That  idea  was  this :  the  interpenetration  of  the  visible  and  the 
invisible;  the  perpetual  co-existence  of  the  puzzle  of  human  experience 
with  the  ecstacy  of  divine  communion.  How  else  could  he  have  expressed 
better  the  perplexity,  the  anguish,  the  helplessness  of  ignorant  sinful 
humanity,  than  by  the  use  of  "lines  which  cross  one  another  roughly" 
and  of  "  harsh  and  conflicting  colors  **  ?  How  else  could  he  have  secured 
the  proper  introduction  to  the  scene  above?  Only  by  contrast  could 
the  glory  of  the  transfiguration  have  been  revealed. 

The  antithesis  is  sharpest,  of  course,  between  the  demoniac  and  the 
Christ,  —  the  boy  possessed  and  the  man  transfigured.  The  boy  has 
the  gestures  of  the  whirling  dervishes  of  the  East,  one  hand  protesting 
against  the  earthly  and  all  that  is  below,  the  other  appealing  to  the 
heavenly  and  all  that  is  above.  His  face  hints  of  a  sudden  glimpse  of 
the  divine  power  manifesting  itself  above  him,  for  "the  devils  also  believe 
and  tremble." 

To  the  upper  part  of  the  canvas  everything  below  directs  the  atten- 
tion. As  a  spray  of  sea-moss  spreads  and  floats  in  water,  so  the  figure 
of  the  Christ  floats  in  the  wondrous  air;  the  toes,  the  fingers,  the  locks 
of  hair,  the  garments,  all  aid  in  giving  this  effect  of  buoyancy.  From  his 
body  a  golden  glory  radiates  with  the  force  of  a  breeze,  flattening  the 
garments  of  the  apostles  and  fluttering  the  robes  of  the  prophets. 

But  the  face  of  the  Master  is  the  supreme  attraction.  Upturned, 
enraptured,  flushed  with  immortal  youth,  charged  with  joy  unspeakable, 
flooded  with  eternal  peace,  glorious  with  the  palpitating  colors  of  heaven 
itself,  it  is  more  beautiful  than  any  other  face  ever  drawn  by  mortal 
hand.  It  is  the  face  of  that  divine  child  of  the  Sistine,  matured,  perfected, 
transfigured. 

How  the  greatest  turn  to  the  Christ  at  last !  Titian,  princely  favorite 
of  emperors  and  kings,  rich  with  all  the  world  could  bestow,  at  ninety- 
nine  paints  his  Pieta,  himself  stripped  of  all  his  wealth  and  honors,  interro- 
gating on  his  knees  the  dead  Christ.  Michelangelo,  superhuman  genius, 
at  eighty-nine,  lonely,  heart-broken,  almost  blind,  sculptures  the  dead 
Christ,  himself  as  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  sympathetic  helper  of  the  stricken 
Mother  and  the  other  Mary.  Raphael  —  ah,  how  different,  and  yet  how 
similar !  At  thirty-seven,  on  the  crest  of  the  wave  of  popularity,  having 
surpassed  all  others  in  the  painting  of  human  beauty,  he  essays  the 
Divine.  To  whom  else  shall  he  come  if  not  to  the  Christ  transfigured  ? 
Working  day  after  day,  striving  to  see  that  face,  to  make  it  appear  again 

[52] 


as  it  appeared  on  Hermon,  the  fatal  fever  comes  upon  him.  Yearning 
for  the  vision  of  the  Master,  the  silver  cord  is  loosed,  the  golden  bowl 
is  broken;  his  own  fair  spirit  ascends  into  the  unspeakable  glory  where 
His  servants  serve  Him  and  they  see  His  face. 

To  me  this  picture  reflects  the  whole  of  life,  life  as  it  is  to-day.  The 
mystery  of  evil,  the  tragedy  of  ignorance,  the  impotence  of  the  will; 
and  along  with  all  that  the  balm  of  beauty,  the  sweetness  of  sympathy 
and  friendship,  the  ever  present  possibility  of  communion  with  God. 
Whenever  I  look  at  it  the  splendid  words  of  one  of  America's  greatest 
seers  ring  and  echo  in  my  ears: 

"From  imperfection's  murkiest  cloud, 
Darts  always  forth  one  ray  of  perfect  light, 
One  flash  of  heaven's  glory. 


To  fashion's,  custom's  discord, 
To  the  mad  Babel-din,  the  deafening  orgies, 
Soothing  each  lull  a  strain  is  heard,  just  heard, 
From  some  far  shore  the  final  chorus  sounding. 

Is  it  a  dream? 

Nay  but  the  lack  of  it  the  dream, 

And  failing  it  life's  lore  and  wealth  a  dream, 

And  all  the  world  a  dream." 


[S3] 


XI 

THE  ASSUMPTION 
By  TITIAN 

THE  greatest  paintings  are  in  one  way  like  the  greatest  books. 
Who  ever  mastered  the  Dialogues  of  Plato,  or  Kant's  Critique, 
at  the  first  reading?    Who  ever  felt  satisfied  with  his  first 
reading  of  the  Divina  Commedia,  or  of  the  immortal  Faust  ? 
When  I  once  mentioned  to  Dr.  William  T.  Harris  the  diffi- 
culties I  had  encountered  in  Hegel's  Aesthetics,  he  exclaimed  with  a 
reassuring  smile,  "Ah,  that  is  one  of  the  great  books;  at  about  the  thir- 
teenth reading  it  begins  to  yield  its  juice!" 

The  Assumption  seems  to  me  a  work  of  this  kind.  When  I  first  saw 
it  I  wrote  in  my  notebook,  "It  disappoints  me."  When  I  had  seen  it 
again  I  wrote,  "The  composition  of  the  picture  and  its  light  and  shade 
are  of  course  admirable."  Ten  years  after  my  first  sight  of  it  I  saw  it 
for  the  third  time,  and  went  into  its  presence  day  after  day.  Then  I 
wrote,  "Taine  is  right.  *  Venetian  art  centers  in  this  work,  and  perhaps 
reaches  its  climax.'  It  is  certainly  one  of  the  supreme  masterpieces  of 
the  world." 

The  Assumption  is  a  large  picture,  so  placed  in  the  Academy  of  Venice 
that  one  sees  it  first  across  a  long  gallery  and  through  an  archway;  the 
sight-seers  coming  and  going  before  it  seem  a  part  of  the  crowd  in  the 
lower  portion  of  the  canvas,  while  above  them  all  floats  the  brilliant, 
life-sized  figure  of  the  Virgin.  "To  this  central  point  in  the  picture 
Titian  invites  us  by  all  the  arts  of  which  he  is  a  master."  ^  And  he  is 
master  of  all  the  arts  known  to  the  painter.^ 

The  picture  deals  with  three  realms:  the  realm  of  the  earth,  the 
realm  of  the  air,  and  the  realm  of  heaven ;   and  these  three  are  so  inter- 

^  From  a  description  in  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle's  History  of  Painting  in  North  Italy. 

*  See  Ruskin's  The  Two  Paths,  Lecture  II,  The  Unity  of  Art.  The  colors  of  the  picture  seem  too 
intense  and  its  contrasts  too  sharp  for  perfect  beauty,  as  it  stands  here  in  the  Academy,  but  it  was  painted 
originally  for  the  high  altar  in  the  great,  dimly  lighted  church  of  the  Frari,  and  no  doubt  there,  in  its  place, 
as  it  came  from  the  hand  of  the  master,  it  was  supremely  beautiful,  "incapable  of  any  improvement  whatever." 

[551 


related  that  the  picture  is  a  unit.  The  central  realm  is  in  touch  with 
the  lower  through  its  lowest  cherubs  and  the  upward  reaching  men,  and 
with  the  upper  through  the  encircling  cherubs,  the  ascending  Virgin, 
and  the  condescending  Father.  It  is  in  harmony  with  the  lower  through 
its  shadows,  and  in  harmony  with  the  upper  through  its  lights.  It  is  in 
sympathy  with  the  lower  through  its  intense  activity,  and  in  sympathy 
with  the  upper  through  its  cloudless  joy.  In  the  original  the  color  forms^ 
a  fourth  bond.  The  contrasting  hues  of  blue  and  orange,  yellow  and 
purple,  red  and  green,  most  brilliant  in  the  central  realm,  are  subdued 
to  the  rich  deep  glooms  of  red  and  purple  in  the  lower  realm,  and 
softened  to  the  serene  glow  of  green  and  yellow  in  the  upper  realm. 

But  each  part  of  the  picture  has  an  individuality  peculiarly  its  own. 
Below,  the  astonished  and  perplexed  apostles  yearn  and  pray  and  argue, 
in  their  darkness.  Only  one,  John  the  beloved,  who  had  cared  for  Mary 
since  the  crucifixion,  is  at  peace  and  understands.  In  the  realm  of  the 
air,  illuminated  by  a  light  like  the  shining  of  the  sun  at  noonday,  the 
ascending  Mary  stands  amid  a  brilliant  and  joyous  throng  of  cherubs. 
In  the  face  of  Mary  only  is  there  a  trace  of  anything  but  pure  delight. 
In  the  upper  part  of  the  picture  the  Almighty,  a  cherub  and  a  seraph, 
without  mirth,  but  charged  with  an  intensity  of  purpose,  an  all-consum- 
ing fire  of  good-will,  float  in  the  glory  that  excelleth,  as  serene  as  a  cloud 
in  the  white  east  at  dawn.  In  form  the  Nameless  One  is  an  embodied 
intelligence;  in  symbolic  color  an  embodied  grace.  He  seems  immedi- 
ately conscious  of  everything,  directly  in  control  of  all.  At  the  very 
moment  he  would  welcome  the  Madonna  he  listens  to  the  adoring  seraph, 
and  restrains  the  cherub  eager  to  crown  the  brow  of  Mary  with  the 
wreath  of  immortality.  From  behind  these  upper  figures  a  glory  so 
deep  and  intense  that  the  eye  cannot  fathom  it  streams  in  from  the 
infinite  spaces,  and  breaks  in  circling  waves  of  celestial  faces  upon  the 
realm  of  air. 

But  after  all  Mary  is  the  supreme  attraction.  Physically  perfect, 
robed  in  beauty,  a  cloud  beneath  her  feet,  she  is  borne  upward,  but  not 
by  the  whirlwind  that  carried  Elijah  above,  nor  by  the  angels  that  trans- 
ported the  body  of  Moses  from  Nebo  to  the  sky.  A  hint  of  the  whirl- 
wind is  here  in  the  swirling  robes;  a  hint  of  the  angelic  power  is  there 
in  the  festoon  of  cherubs;  but  Mary  ascends  through  spiritual  attrac- 
tions; she  rises  because  her  spirit  responds  again  to  the  divine  voice.  In 
her  girlhood  she  replied,  "Behold,  the  Handmaid  of  the  Lord;"  in  her 

[S6] 


prime  she  answers,  "Behold,  I  come;  lo,  I  delight  to  do  Thy  will." 
Thus  she  is  drawn  from  earth  to  heaven ;  from  pain  through  song  to  peace ; 
from  the  mysteries  of  the  life  where  we  see  through  a  glass  darkly,  to  the 
revelations  of  the  life  where  we  see  eye  to  eye  and  know  as  we  are  known. 
But  look  at  the  face  of  Mary.  She  has  forgotten  her  friends  below; 
she  is  oblivious  to  the  flood  of  life  and  love  about  her;  she  does  not  see 
the  wreath  and  crown  above  her  head.  There  is  for  her  one  supreme 
attraction,  to  us  invisible;  on  that  her  eyes  are  fastened,  toward  that 
she  lifts  her  hands.  That  which  was  a  light  is  becoming  a  face,  —  the 
sweet  face  she  kissed  at  Bethlehem,  the  brave  face  she  loved  in  Nazareth, 
the  face  she  could  not  endure  on  Calvary,  the  face  she  had  seen  last  above 
the  clouds  on  Olivet,  now  transfigured  with  eternal  glory,  —  the  face 
of  her  own  beloved  Son.  As  the  blessed  truth  dawns  upon  her  faithful 
heart,  a  wonder  of  surprise,  a  vanishing  sorrow,  the  unspeakable  yearning 
of  a  mother's  love,  an  inconceivable  joy  too  intense  for  smiles  or  tears, 
mingle  and  throb  and  tremble  in  her  own  wondrous,  fearless,  upturned  face. 

"First  a  peace  out  of  pain, 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !    I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 
And  with  God  be  at  rest." 

Who  else  but  her  Son  of  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  could  give  her  perfect 
welcome  to  the  Father's  house .? 

Whether  we  accept  Ligouri's  account  of  this  "Glory  of  Mary"  or 
not,  we  must  accept  Titian's  vision  of  it.  He  has  shown  us  the  glorifica- 
tion of  a  great  soul. 

"  From  the  misty  shores  of  midnight, 

Touched  with  splendors  of  the  moon, 
To  the  singing  tides  of  heaven, 

And  the  light  more  clear  than  noon, 
Passed  a  soul  that  grew  to  music 

Till  it  was  with  God  in  tune." 

Titian  saw  a  triumph  like  that  which  Henry  Van  Dyke  saw  in  the 
passing  of  Tennyson.  But  as  the  Madonna  transcends  the  Laureate,  so 
Titian's  rich  full-organ  harmony  transcends  Van  Dyke's  sweet  melody. 
Both,  however,  have  the  same  message.  It  is  the  thrilling  message  of 
Easter. 

Is?] 


»2 

«-  -f 


%*  y 
^"j^ 


XII 

THE  PIETA 

By  TITIAN 

G£SU  Cristo  morto  in  gremho  alia  Madre:  such  is  the  piteous 
title  of  this  picture  in  the  sweet  Itahan  tongue,  "Dead  in 
the  Lap  of  His  Mother."  "Poignant  in  its  impression  and 
pathetic  in  its  suggestiveness,  this  grand  canvas,"  say  the 
Blashfields,  "almost  a  monochrome,  is  in  a  way  one  of 
the  most  powerful  pictures  which  the  wonderful  century-old  painter 
created."  By  means  of  it  Titian  was  to  have  purchased  a  burial 
place  in  the  church  of  the  Frari;  but  the  monks  quarreled  with 
him  and  willed  that  he  should  be  buried  in  the  Pieve  of  Cadore. 
When  he  died,  however,  slain  by  the  plague  which  decimated  Venice 
in  the  summer  of  1576,  the  laws  established  to  guard  against  con- 
tamination were  set  aside,  and  the  Serene  Republic  buried  its  great- 
est citizen  in  the  church  of  the  Frari.  The  Pieta  was  intended  to 
complete  his  trilogy  of  decorative  pictures  for  that  Pantheon  of 
Venice:  The  Madonna  of  Ca  Presaro  —  the  infant  Christ  in  his 
Mother's  arms;  The  Pieta  —  the  dead  Christ  in  his  Mother's  arms; 
and  The  Assumption  —  the  Mother  ascending  to  the  welcoming  arms  of 
the  living  Christ  in  glory. 

Before  beginning  a  study  of  the  picture  itself,  in  the  Academia  of 
Venice,  it  is  well  to  recall  certain  facts  concerning  the  man  who 
painted  it. 

Born  of  a  noble  family;  in  training  from  his  ninth  year  under  such 
men  as  Zuccato,  the  Bellinis,  and  Giorgione;  a  persistent  student;  ever 
the  companion  of  the  most  celebrated  men  of  his  time,  musicians, 
poets,  prelates,  princes,  kings;  successful,  wealthy,  honored  above  all 
others;  of  perfect  health,  he  had  practised  his  art  without  interruption 
for  almost  ninety  years.  What  a  preparation!  Moreover,  Titian's 
aim  in  all  his  work  had  been  Adequacy, — as  Claude  Phillips  puts  it, 
"To  give  the  fullest  and  most  legitimate  expression   to  the   subjects 

[59] 


which  he  presented,"  or,  as  Hegel  would  say,  to  give  in  each  case 
the  best  possible  "embodiment  of  the  idea."  Thus  equipped  this 
supreme  painter  of  the  Renaissance  approached  this  supreme  subject, 
the  very  crux  of  Christianity,  the  event  upon  whose  issue  the  hopes 
and  fears  of  all  the  years  are  centered,  the  sine  qua  non  of  the  Chris- 
tian faith. 

With  the  unfailing  insight  of  the  artist,  Titian  saw  the  significance 
of  the  death  and  resurrection  of  Christ.  He  recognized  it  as  the  very 
foundation  of  the  church.  This  canvas,  therefore,  reflects  perfectly  the 
most  orthodox  theology  of  revealed  religion,  and  the  painter's  own  atti- 
tude toward  it. 

"In  the  primitive  language  of  religion  and  art,  the  very  smallest 
tracery  had  a  meaning;  every  leaf,  every  rudely  carved  animal  spoke 
in  mystic  language  of  some  great  truth  in  religion."  ^  Events  con- 
spired to  gather  all  the  wealth  of  ancient  symbolism.  Classic  and  Chris- 
tian, into  Italy  and  to  give  it  special  potency  in  Italian  art.  Titian, 
perfectly  familiar  with  all  this,  has  here  given  an  example  of  its  "fullest 
and  most  legitimate  expression." 

The  central  feature  of  the  picture,  filling  nearly  the  whole  back- 
ground, is  a  solid  structure  ^  built  of  hewn  stone,^  typical  of  the  church.^ 
To  make  the  meaning  unmistakable,  the  mosaic  decoration  in  the  hollow 
of  the  niche  is  the  pelican  tearing  open  her  breast  to  feed  her  young  with 
her  own  blood,^  adopted  by  the  early  church  fathers  as  a  symbol  of 
redemption.  The  enormous  keystone  of  the  arch,  into  which  the  lines 
of  the  pediment  run,^  is  triple,  three  in  one.^  The  character  of  this  "chief 
stone"  is  still  further  defined  by  the  triangular  ornament  upon  the  cen- 
tral portion,  the  triangle  being  a  very  ancient  symbol  of  the  God  of  Truth, 
Beauty,  and  Goodness.  Beneath  the  keystone  are  five  guttae,  recalling 
the  five  wounds  of  the  cross. »  On  either  side  angels  with  trumpets 
announce  and  invite,  as  the  church  is  commanded  to  do."  The  monu- 
mental figures  at  left  and  right,  "Moses"  and  " Helespontio,"  represent 
the  old  covenant  and  the  new  i°  —  the  Law  with  its  rod  of  correction  and 
its  tables  of  stone,^^  and  Grace  with  her  symbolic  cross ;  ^^  or  Works  and 
Faith,  without  either  of  which  the  religious  life  is  meaningless.^^     Both 

^  Leader  Scott  in  The  Cathedral  Builders,  chapter  on  Comacine  Ornamentation  in  the  Lombard  Era. 
'  Matthew  xvi:  i8.  •  Ephesians  ii:  21.  "  Hebrews  viii:  7-13. 

'  I  Peter  ii:  5.  ^  I  John  v:  7.  "  Exodus  xxxii:  15,  16. 

*  Revelation  iii:  12.  "  Psalm  xxii:  16;  John  xix:  34.  "  Romans  v:  2. 

^  John  vi:  53-56.  •  Revelation  xiv:  6;  xxii:  7  "  James  ii:  17,  18. 

{60] 


the  old  covenant  and  the  new »  required  the  suppression  and  control 
of  the  appetites  and  passions,  the  animal  nature,^  hence  the  heads  of 
angry  wild  beasts  adorn  the  pedestals. 

Turning  now  to  the  central  group,  Titian's  reason  for  placing  Mary, 
with  the  dead  Christ  in  her  lap,  within  the  niche,  is  self-evident;  that 
Mother  and  Son  are  enshrined  in  the  church,  the  very  heart  of  its  being. 
"Christianity,"  said  Carlyle,  "is  the  Worship  of  Sorrow." 

The  Hope  of  Israel  is  dead.  A  little  cherub  at  the  left,  on  the  side 
of  the  Old  Covenant,  guards  the  symbolic  urn  of  ashes,  symbol  of  the 
mortal  body;  another  above,  on  the  side  of  the  New,  carries  the  torch 
of  life,  symbol  of  the  immortal  spirit.'  Mary  Magdalene,  beautiful 
even  in  her  grief,  the  most  active  of  those  who  mourned,*  calls  anxiously 
for  sympathy  and  help.^  It  is  the  darkest  moment  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  Hence  all  the  tones  of  the  picture  are  deep,  somber,  charged 
with  gray  and  black.  But  how  pure  they  are!  Was  there  ever  any- 
where another  blue  like  this  in  Mary's  robe.?  The  whole  picture  is  in 
twilight,  every  face  is  sad  save  one,  the  face  of  Faith. 

The  lines  of  composition  in  the  design,  as  well  as  the  dull  colors,  have 
been  cited  as  a  proof  of  Titian's  failing  power!  This  long  sweeping  curve 
from  the  head  of  Moses  downward  to  the  right, leading  nowhere;  that  harsh 
line  of  the  cross ;  the  horizontals  of  the  foreground,  barring  entrance  to  the 
eye.  —  But  these  do  lead  the  eye  somewhere.  They  lead  it  to  that  tile  set 
against  the  base  of  the  pedestal  of  Faith.  And  why  to  that .?  Examine  it 
and  see.  On  that  tile  is  Faith's  prophetic  vision  drawn  in  miniature.*  The 
key  to  the  situation  is  the  supreme  act  of  omnipotent  Love.  Through 
deep  waters  a  strong  man  bears  an  unconscious  one  in  his  arms;  he  is 
nearing  the  shore  where  kneel  two  faithful  men  in  thankful  adoration.' 
The  Mater  Dolorosa  sees  only  the  dead  Christ.  The  repentant  Magda- 
lene feels  only  her  loss  and  need.  Titian  leads  us  to  see  beyond;  he 
shows  to  us  the  Father,  carrying  the  Son  in  death,  and  beyond  and  above 
that  picture  on  the  tile,  he  shows  us  the  solid  structure  of  the  Christian 
Faith  that  is  to  be,  crowned  with  the  fruitful  vine,  and  crystal  glasses, 
symbols  at  once  of  the  Christ  himself,^  of  that  most  precious  sacrament, 
the  eucharist,'*  and  of  the  new  wine  of  the  Father's  kingdom. i» 

^  Titian's  inscription,  "  Helespontio,"  probably  echoes  the  old  Greek  myth,  and  here  probably  means, 
the  baptized  one. 

*  Romans  vi:  12,  13.  '  Lamentations  i:  12.  '  John  xv:  1-5. 

*  Ecclesiastes  xii:  7.  •  Psalm  xvi:  10.  •  I  Corinthians  xi:  25,  26. 

*  John  xx:  l.  '  Isaiah  xliii:  2.  ^  Matthew  xxvi:  29. 

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But  what  means  this  figure  in  the  foreground,  this  old  man  with  but 
a  single  coarse  robe  about  his  kneeling  figure? 

Do  you  recall  that  portrait  of  Titian  painted  by  himself  at  eighty- 
five,  now  hanging  in  the  Prado  of  Madrid?  *'The  mood  does  not  seem 
to  be  one  of  reminiscence,  but  rather  of  grave  anticipation,"  says  Miss 
Hurll.  "The  painter  gazes  absently  into  space  as  if  piercing  beyond  the 
veil  which  separates  this  world  from  the  next."  That  full  high  forehead, 
that  strong  nose,  the  ear  far  back,  the  trim  white  beard  are  not  only  in 
that  portrait;  they  are  here!  Here  is  Titian  himself,  his  villa  forgotten, 
his  gorgeous  robes  laid  aside;  stripped  of  wealth,  careless  of  praise  or 
blame,  on  his  knees,  an  old  man,  he  interrogates  the  dead  Christ. 

Do  you  remember  that  wonderful  last  work  of  Michelangelo's  behind 
the  high  altar  of  the  cathedral  of  Florence,  left  unfinished  by  the  master  ? 
That,  too,  is  a  Pieta,  the  dead  Christ  in  his  Mother's  arms.  The  Magda- 
lene is  there  also,  and  behind  them,  one  hand  helping  to  hold  the  body 
of  Jesus  and  the  other  supporting  the  sad  Mary,  stands  an  aged  man 
Joseph  of  Arimathea?  Yes;  but  the  face  is  the  face  of  Michelangelo! 
Old,  half-blind,  disappointed,  bereaved,  at  the  last  this  towering  genius 
of  the  Renaissance  turned  to  the  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all: 

"Mid  weariness  and  woe  I  find  some  cheer 
In  thinking  of  the  past  when  I  recall 
My  weakness  and  my  sins,  and  reckon  all 
The  vain  expense  of  days  that  disappear.  .  .  . 
,  .  .  What  man  shall  venture  to  maintain 
That  pity  will  condone  our  long  neglect  ? 
Still  from  Thy  blood  poured  forth  we  know  full  well 
How  without  measure  was  Thy  martyr's  pain, 
How  measureless  the  gifts  we  dare  expect."  ^ 

In  thankfulness  for  that  hope,  what  else  could  Michelangelo,  the  man 
of  good  works,  do,  but  offer  his  help  to  his  Lord  in  the  hour  of  His 
deepest  need  ? 

And  what  could  Titian  do  in  his  last  hour  but  turn  to  that  same  divine 
Friend  ?    His  attitude  seems  to  say, 

"'Nothing  in  my  hands  I  bring; 

Naked,  come  to  Thee  for  dress; 
Helpless,  look  to  Thee  for  grace.* 


*  From  the  77th  Sonnet  of  Michelangelo. 
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O,  thou  Mighty  One,  this  cannot  be  the  end  for  Thee!  There  must 
be  something  for  such  as  Thee  beyond  the  tragedy  of  death.  Is  there 
aught  for  me?" 

This  picture,  left  unfinished,  is  the  last  prayer  of  the  Prince  of  Painters : 
*'Lord,  remember  me  when  thou  comest  into  Thy  kingdom." 


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